“Oh, sir, I heard nothing—I know nothing,” cried the old man, “I—I was only passing the door to—to go to the picture gallery, and stooped to pick up—a nail—that’s all, upon my word, sir.”
“Where is the nail?” said the smith.
“Here,” said Oliver, pointing to the oaken floor. “I thought it was loose, but found it fast.”
“It matters not,” said Learmont, suddenly casting the sword from him; “I don’t like even the most trifling affairs to be pryed into; but since you know all, Oliver, will you assist us?”
“Sir, I am at your service,” said Oliver; “but, on my soul, I heard nothing but your honour say you would get something.”
“Pooh,—pooh!” cried Learmont. “I forgive thee listening. Would money tempt you, Oliver?”
“To what, sir?” said Oliver, with such a look of real innocence, that Learmont turned aside, saying,—
“Enough—he knows nothing. Begone!”
With precipitation the old servant left the apartment, and when he was fairly gone, Learmont turned to his visitors and said,—
“Rest quiet till to-night. I will then meet you at the smithy.”