“The papers—the papers!”
Albert handed him the copy of Gray’s confession, which Learmont snatched with the most frantic eagerness.
“You see, Mr. Seyton,” he said, “I am most anxious about the welfare of yourself and this young maiden—I pray you drink. The wine is good. Yes, this is addressed to Sir Francis Hartleton, but it is far better in my hands. She would fare badly, you know, in the tender mercies of such man as he. Drink—you—you do not drink.”
There was something about Learmont’s extreme eagerness to induce him to drink that excited the suspicious of Albert, and he resolved that he would not touch a drop of wine, but having executed his errand, would get out of the house as quickly as possible.
Learmont rose as he spoke, still grasping the document Albert had given him in his hand, and said,—
“Wait for me a short time; I will read this most carefully, and then communicate to you the result. Drink Mr. Seyton. I pray you do not spare the wine. You look fatigued.”
With an expression of triumph upon his brow, and a haughtier, firmer tread than he had used for years, Learmont left the room, with, as he supposed, the confession of Jacob Gray in his possession, and Albert Seyton disposed of, as he thought he would be, by partaking of the drugged wine, he then considered he should have no further trouble concerning Ada, except what might easily be overcome.
Before he returned to Albert, the latter had cast the wine from the window, and when Learmont glanced at the goblet, and saw it was empty, he said,—
“Mr. Seyton, I have read the paper; it says that your Ada, your much-loved Ada, is an orphan, and that you will find her at—at—Chatham.”
“At Chatham, sir?”