“Capital! Oh, capital!” he cried. “That’s you, good, politic Master Gray. Ho! Ho! How well we all understand each other! There are no needless delicacies. Ho! Ho! Ho!”
Gray rose from his chair without saying a word, but his very lips were pale with suppressed rage. He hastily collected the money that lay before him, and having bestowed it away in safety, he cast a malignant scowl upon Learmont, and said,—“We shall meet again soon, sir, when, should you happen to raise your voice do high, there may be listeners, who will say we judge of Learmont by his company. Now to London.” So saying, without waiting for a reply, he left the room.
The dark eyes of the Squire of Learmont flashed with rage, as Gray gave utterance to this taunt, and when the last echo of his retreating footsteps had died away, Britton broke the silence that ensued, by saying,—
“Yon knave knows his power.”
“Aye, does he!” cried Learmont, striking the table with his clenched hand. “But we, Britton, are not altogether powerless.”
“What can we do?” said the smith.
“Jacob Gray and his secret must perish together.”
“With all my heart, squire, but the fellow’s caution is so excessive, that we are more interested in his preservation than his destruction.”
“True,” replied Learmont. “His caution is great, as you say, but there are times when the most cautious are off their guard. Remember this, Britton, that every guinea that finds its way into the purse of Jacob Gray, is a guinea torn from you.”
“I know it,” cried the smith, “and I would have scattered his brains upon the hearth-stone of the Old Smithy, but that he averred he had taken the precaution of leaving the written statement of all he knew at home, to be opened if he returned not within a given time, and although I doubted that he had done so, even to the verge of positive disbelief, yet was the risk too great, and I let him live.”