“For a time—only for a time,” said Learmont.
A grim smile crossed the face of Britton, as he said;
“Should Jacob Gray die suddenly, and leave no trace behind, him, shall I be entitled to the whole of what is now divided?”
“You shall,” cried Learmont, eagerly. “Assure me of the death of this man, who, from my soul, I abhor, and I will add to rather than diminish the sum, which will now be divided between you, and further, mark me, Master Britton. Should you find it in your way to dispose quietly and surely of—of that one being who stands between me and the assurance of my safety—”
“You mean the boy?”
“I do.”
“It would be worth a large price, Squire Learmont, to rid you of Jacob Gray—the boy, and place in your hands the document which the wily Jacob has composed.”
“It would be worth a price,” cried Learmont, “so high a price that—that, Britton, you should yourself name it, and then, be it what it might, couple it with but the condition that you leave England for ever, and it is yours.”
“’Tis a tempting offer,” said the smith.
“I mean it to be such,” replied Learmont. “Insinuate yourself, Britton, into the confidence of this man, Gray; steal his very heart’s inmost secrets; make common cause with him; get inmates at his home, and then—then take some propitious moment to possess yourself of his written confession, if he have really produced one, and crush him at a blow.”