“I—have no friends.”
“Indeed, your honour.”
“No—nor ever had any—nor ever shall—I am peculiarly situated. There are people in this city who would murder me to keep me out of my just property.”
“Is there indeed, sir? Oh, the wretches.”
“Yes, and the reason I come to live here is by the advice of my lawyers, in order that I should not be found by those who would take my life if they could.”
“Lord, what wickedness there is in the world,” said the woman.
“There is indeed,” said Gray, gravely. “When I come to my property, depend upon a very handsome present from me if you obey my injunctions.”
The woman curtseyed to the very ground, and Gray then signified to her that she might retire and leave him.
Jacob Gray little imagined how actively Sir Francis Hartleton was watching him, and at that very moment that he was conversing with the woman about the necessity of denying him to every one, a man was in the doorway opposite taking the most accurate notice of the house, and revolving in his mind some means of discovering whether Jacob Gray intended remaining there or not.
The fact was, he had never been lost sight of by one or other of Sir Francis Hartleton’s men, and although they had been momentarily at fault when he got in at the doctor’s attic window, one of them had remained on the spot while another went into a neighbouring house, the owner of which he knew, and clambering out on the roof felt satisfied that Gray was housed somewhere.