“Must?”
“Yes—must!”
Learmont bit his lip, and passed into the house, which Gray taking as a passive permission to follow him, did so, until Learmont paused in a room devoted to the purpose of a library, and which was but dimly lighted. Then turning to Gray, he said,—
“Well?” in a brief stern voice.
Gray had hastily concocted in his mind what he should say to Learmont, and after carefully closing the door, he replied in nearly his usual low and cautious tone, although his voice shook a little,—
“It is not all well. Squire Learmont, me thinks I should have a better reception for coming some distance, and waiting long to tell you news of more importance to you than to me.”
Jacob Gray was unconscious that he touched a chord in Learmont’s heart, which had vibrated painfully ever since his interview with Britton; but he saw, by the nervous clutching of a back of a chair with his fingers, that Learmont was alarmed, and that was what he wished.
“What—what—mean you?” said Learmont.
“I mean this,” replied Gray, “that Sir Francis Hartleton—”
“Hartleton again!” cried Learmont, clenching his fist. “By all that’s damnable—that man is born to be my bane—my curse—I will have his blood.”