"Yes," replied Cæsar: "listen! To-morrow you must endeavour to find out the abode of one Tidmarsh, a friend of Old Death's."
"That will be easily accomplished to-morrow night when I meet Benjamin Bones," said Jeffreys. "You are aware that the object of my appointment with him, is to introduce to him two friends of mine who will undertake to dig up the remains of Tom Rainford, the famous highwayman."
"Yes—yes," said Cæsar hastily.
"Well," continued Jeffreys, "I am supposed to be the leader of the party by whom that task is to be performed; and I shall tell Old Death that he must send Tidmarsh with me in the morning to point out the place where Rainford is buried. He will then let me know where Tidmarsh lives; or else will at once make him write a note to that person to arrange an appointment."
"I understand," said Cæsar. "But suppose that Old Death will do neither, alleging that he will call himself on Tidmarsh and send him to meet you on the following morning at some place named? In this case all will be wrong, because Old Death is to be captured to-morrow night on his way home. Had you not better call in Seven Dials to-morrow morning, tell Old Death that you have found your friends and made the appointment with them for the evening, and then ask him to let Tidmarsh at once afford you the clue you will require to—to—the grave of Rainford?" asked the lad, his voice trembling and hesitating slightly as he uttered the concluding words of his question.
"I understand you perfectly, Cæsar," replied Jeffreys. "Leave it to me to manage as our master desires: I will undertake to be able to give Wilton good news of Tidmarsh to-morrow night."
"Our master will rely upon you," said the youth. "Meantime farewell;"—and he hurried rapidly away, Jeffreys not offering to follow him.
CHAPTER XC.
THE NEW JUSTICE OF THE PEACE.
Sir Christopher Blunt was seated in his library, on the same evening which saw the interview between Cæsar and Jeffreys; and his countenance was animated with a glow of indescribable delight as he glanced his eyes over several letters which he opened one after another.
He was dressed in a very elegant manner; though he had somewhat punished his corns by persisting to wear tight boots in order to make his feet look small, and he might have felt a trifle or so easier at the waist if he had not tied his waistcoat strings so tight. But if Sir Christopher Blunt chose to enhance the fascinations of his appearance by converting himself into a voluntary victim of that all-powerful Inquisition called "Fashion,"—if Sir Christopher Blunt, like a great many other silly, old gentlemen of this age, smiled at his self-martyrdom with the equanimity of a saint broiling on a gridiron,—it is no business of any body save the Sir Christopher Blunt aforesaid.