“Ah! you may look, ma’am—and look as searchingly as you like,” exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but you won’t find me out in any contradiction—nor yet to telling you any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long time—and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together; and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to have my turn against him sooner or later;—and I bided my time. That time is now come—and I shall let him know it before many hours are over his head.”
“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal—this old man—to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob—and all that. So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,—“unless, I say, the old man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”
“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of experiencing or inflicting.”
“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case we are sure of our prey.”
“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“By violence, my good lady—by violence, to be sure!” responded the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow lustre—as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and, though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart—distinct—and sinister.
“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.
“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a pal of mine—and of Vitriol Bob’s also—who would aid and assist: but then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however, you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old, emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”
“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs. Mortimer.