"Help me, or don't help me," Bufton cried, rapping his fist upon the table; "but curse your infernal preaching! Only, if you refuse, never now shall you have one farthing of that money at my mother's death. Never; never."
"I will help you once again. But this is for the last time. I have helped you too often, have ruined myself for you once. It is for the last time."
"Ay! for the last time. I swear it."
"So," said Granger inwardly to himself, "do I. For the last time."
After which they put their heads together as to how Ariadne and Anne were to be entrapped to Plaistow Marshes, and to the spot where the boat would be waiting to convey them to the schooner, and afterwards to slavery, or disgrace, or death.
[CHAPTER XV.]
PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT.
"A letter is the way," Granger said, as they continued their discourse; "a little letter. Only, who is to write it? Your Anne--your wife," he added, observing Bufton wince, "knows your handwriting. You used to pen some charming billets-doux to 'A. T.,' you remember. Unfortunately it was the wrong 'A. T.' But then we did not know that."
As he spoke, his eyes, which now missed nothing, saw Bufton's hands close on the knife and fork which were in each, as though he would commit murder with them--on one person, at least!--and he knew that the poison of madness which he was distilling was sinking into the rogue's soul. Sinking in, and doing its work!
"And," he continued, "although neither of our 'A's '--neither the true heiress, whom Barry has gotten; nor the false, whom you possess--know my handwriting, Barry himself does so, and he might find the precious thing when the women are gone. Yet, somehow, a letter--a lure--must be written."