“I—I—had thought of that,” said Gray.
“And a wise thought too,” urged Learmont. “What is your life to me were it not that you have surrounded me with danger? Do I thirst for your blood for its own sake? Certainly not—have your own price—bring me the boy, and destroy your written confession.”
“And leave England for ever?” muttered Gray.
“Yes—seek safety and enjoyment somewhere else in another land, where the finger of suspicion can never be pointed at you, and where you will only appear as the wealthy stranger.”
“’Tis tempting,” said Gray; “but—”
“But what?—Why do you hesitate?”
“Would there be no danger even between the threshold of this house and the deck of the vessel which was to convey me and my fortunes from England for ever?”
“Danger?—a—What danger?”
“The assassin’s knife,” said Gray. “Hear me, Squire Learmont; if we could trust each other for so brief a space as half an hour, it might be done; but we cannot—you know we cannot!”
“You refuse upon danger,” said Learmont, trying to smile, and producing a ghastly distortion of visage. “You are over cautious, Master Gray.”