“Squire Learmont,” said Gray, “for three thousand pounds I will rid you of the young object of your fears—of myself—and, perchance, of Andrew Britton.”
“Three thousand pounds?” said Learmont.
“Yes—a small sum you must own—a very small sum.”
“You will bring me here—”
“No—no—I will do this—on shipboard, I will hand you an address written on the back of my confession.”
“I will consider,” said Learmont, “and in the meantime bethink you of some means of ridding me of Hartleton. While that man lives I stand as it were upon a mine, and—and—you will be here in the morning by half-past ten.”
It would have been a curious study for any deep theorist on human nature to have remarked these two men, Learmont and Gray, at this moment, watching each other’s countenances, and yet endeavouring to avoid seeming so to do, and mutually suspicious that every word covered some hidden and covert meaning.
“What change has taken place, that Jacob Gray is so anxious to compromise with me for a sum of money at once?” was Learmont’s mental interrogatory.
“Why does he want me here by half-past ten so particularly?” thought Gray; “I will not come.”
Thus they parted, mutually hating and mutually suspicious of each other.