“Oh, Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “if you could destroy Britton, securing at the same time the dangerous papers he has—bring me the boy—commit your own confession to the flames, and share my fortune!”
“Humph!“ said Gray. “If I could.”
“You might.”
“Well, that’ll do,” roared Britton, as the servant held the door open for him to enter the room. “Oh—oh—you here?”
“Yes, cunning Britton,” said Gray, “I am here.”
“Curse you, then!” said Britton, flinging himself into a chair.
“Bless you!” said Gray. “Ho, ho! Clever Britton.”
“Perhaps, gentlemen,” sneered Learmont, “you will condescend to carry your quarrels to some pot-house, when you have said what you wish to say to me?”
“Yes,” said Gray, “we shall anger his worship.”
“Damnation take—”