“Silence, and begone,” cried Learmont, in a loud voice, and the man precipitately retired in a great fright.
“Oh! I forgot the wine,” said Learmont, as he turned from the door, “ring again if you please.”
Albert rung, and with a pale face the servant just came to the threshold of the door.
“Wine,” cried Learmont, and the man disappeared immediately with a jerk, as if he had been pulled away by some wire.
“You will continue your narration,” said Learmont, trying to impart some moisture to his parched lips—“you—you—named Gray, I think, as the man’s name?”
“I did, sir—Jacob Gray.”
Learmont was prepared for this, and he only gave a slight start, as the familiar name came upon his ears. “Go on—go on,” he said.
“I was about to tell you that he kept a mysterious written paper in his room, addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate.”
“Addressed on the outside to Sir Francis Hartleton, the magistrate,” muttered Learmont—“then, then, it was true.”
“Sir!”