“Was that Mr. Seyton who just now entered your master’s house?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“Ah, I thought it was he. I have not seen him for a long time. He is intimate with the squire, I believe.”
“He is his worship’s private secretary, sir.”
“Oh, yes, to be sure. Good morning, friend.”
“Good morning, sir.”
The servant passed on, and Sir Francis Hartleton stood a few moments in deep thought.
“So,” he said, “this lover of Ada’s turns out to be Learmont’s private secretary. The private secretary of a villain should be like his master, and if the young man be a faithful servant, he is no fit match for Ada. He must be in league, with Learmont in all his atrocities, else would he, occupying the situation he does, be a sore encumbrance to such a man as the squire. The facts speak plainly—a confidential servant of a man like Learmont can only be one degree removed from his principal in villany, and that degree must be one deeper still. Is it possible that this young man, who spoke so fairly—who looked so frank and candid, and in whom I, with all my practice of human nature, could discover nothing but what was manly and interesting in his first interview with me—is it possible that he can be one employed to do the dirty work of such a man as Squire Learmont? Alas! Alas! Such is humanity. Surely some sort of presentiment of this—some special interposition of Providence in favour of the good and pure—must have induced me, for Ada’s sake, to follow him thus, instead of permitting a recognition in the streets. A fine tale would this private secretary have had for the ears of his master—that the simple, easily duped Sir Francis Hartleton had in his care the object, for some reason, of his bitterest hatred, and that he, the sweet tongued, honied-accented, private secretary was welcomed as the accepted lover, and had free ingress and egress to the house in which she lived—could concert what plots and plans he liked—nay, could take her very life for a reward sufficient. Thank Heaven, for unmasking so much villany.”
Sir Francis Hartleton’s face was flushed, and there was resentment at his heart, as he walked with hasty steps past Learmont’s house.
He had not, however, proceeded far when he heard his name mentioned by some one behind him, and, suddenly turning he saw, within a few paces of him, the object of his present angry thoughts—namely, Albert Seyton, who had left Learmont’s house upon seeing the magistrate from a window of the little room by the hall.