“Nothing; but I wish you to be up and doing. I have discovered the abode of Jacob Gray, and he says that poor silly Britton will never cope with him. He says that Andrew Britton’s muddle head is only fit for the pillory, and that he has more cunning in his little finger than you have in your whole composition. So says Jacob Gray.”
“Now curse him, I’ll have his life,” cried Britton.
“You shall, if you will be guided by me; I can take you to the house he is in; I can make you sure of him now, Britton.”
“You can squire?”
“I can.”
“Then I’m your man—drunk, or sober, I’ll cut Jacob Gray’s throat, with pleasure. The only disagreeable thing will be that when he’s dead, one can’t taunt him about it.”
“It will be revenge enough to kill him,” said Learmont. “Will you be ready this night?”
“This minute if you like.”
“No—it must be at midnight—we must be very careful yet, for Gray is cunning, and moreover, he does not now reside in a lone house, where no cries would be heard. He lives now where there may be many people, and it would detract from our triumph over Gray to be hanged for his murder.”
“It would rather,” muttered Britton; “we must be cunning then, I think I’m quite as cunning as Gray any day.”