“If you must drink, let me beg of you to do so then in moderation.”
“Never fear me, when there’s actual work to be done. Where shall we meet?”
“At the steps of my house,” said Learmont. “Be punctual and sober, and remember, Andrew Britton, how much depends upon the proceedings of this night. You yourself daily and hourly incur danger from Jacob Gray greater than you dream of. Suppose him suddenly off by sickness, and we, not knowing of it, sleeping in fancied security, while this damning confession of his passes from hand to hand until it reaches him who is panting to destroy us—I mean Sir Francis Hartleton. Think of that and tremble, Andrew Britton. Then again, who knows a day when his insatiate avarice may induce him to fancy he has accumulated gold enough to live independently in some other country, and leave England for ever after. Mark my words, Andrew Britton, after taking measures for our destruction by leaving behind him documents which too many will be willing to believe and act upon. He has used language which, translated into plainer terms, would expressly signify such an intention; and more than once has he smiled to himself, and chuckled over the imaginary account of the execution of the sot—the ass—the clod-brained Andrew Britton. Do you mark my words?”
“I do, squire—say no more—he dies, if he had twenty lives. Curses on him—he dies, I say. Be assured I shall not fail to meet you at the hour you name. If there be one thing I live for above another, it is to slaughter Jacob Gray. He calls me a sot does he, because now and then I take a glass too much? Why, he would be drunk himself morning, noon, and night, if he had the courage.”
“Certainly,” said Learmont. “He hoards his money.”
“By-the-by, squire, when we’ve knocked him on the head, we’ll find where he keeps this same hoard of money.”
“We will—we will, Britton, and you shall have an ample share of it for your pains. Be sure you be punctual. Be secret and vigilant.”
“Never fear me, squire, I’ll only take enough drink to steady my nerves, and as the clock strikes twelve to-night, I will be at your door.”
“Adieu,” said Learmont, as he stalked out of the attic. “Adieu, Andrew Britton, this night makes or mars your future fortunes. The idiotic sot,” muttered Learmont to himself, as he descended the stairs, “he falls easily into the trap, which will eventually prove his own death, so shall I be free of both my enemies.”
“There goes a vagabond,” said Britton, when the squire had left him. “He thinks to gammon me, does he? But I’m deeper than he thinks for. Curse that Gray! I will kill him for my old grudge against him, but I’ll not only have all his money, but, if I lay hands on his confession, the squire must be a stouter fellow than I think him if he gets it.”