“Know not!” said Sir Francis. Then turning to the officer he said, “Wait without,” and in a moment he was alone with Albert. There was a pause of some minutes’ duration, and then Sir Francis said,—
“You may, or you may not, as it may please you, give me an account of this affair.”
“For the sake of the name I bear and the memory of my dear father,” said Albert, “I will declare my innocence and although you may judge me wrongfully, shall die happy, if you will do justice to one who is dearer to me than myself. That one is the persecuted Ada, who, if she be still living, I implore you to succour. Oh, sir, you do not know her—and—and I have no words to paint her to you.”
“But about this murder?” said Sir Francis, uneasily.
“I will tell you all I know. Being some time since destitute, I applied to one Learmont for employment, and was by him entertained as his secretary.”
“So have I heard. Go on, sir.”
“The first confidential employment he put me on was to follow a man home, who he thought was imposing upon his benevolence, but before I could proceed upon that employment I had related to him the secret of my heart—my passionate love for Ada, even as I told it to you, sir—my long and weary search for her—my bitter reflections concerning the cruelty of Jacob Gray—I told him all that, and his generosity seemed much worked upon. He proffered me unbounded assistance. His wealth—his power—all he said should be exerted to do justice to the innocent.”
“And you believed him?”
“I did, and was happy in the thought that Ada would be rescued from her miseries. Then by a strange chance it turned out that this very man who he had commissioned me to watch to his house was Jacob Gray.”
“Indeed!” said Sir Francis, in a peculiar tone.