As between these two gentlemen, this, it must be allowed, was an impertinent request. But Captain Lake did look up, and there was something extraordinarily unpleasant in his yellow eyes, as he fixed them upon the contracted pupils of the attorney, who, nothing daunted, went on—
'Pray, excuse me—thank you, Captain Lake—they say one is better heard when looked at than when not seen; and I wish to speak rather low, for reasons.'
Each looked the other in the eyes, with that uncertain and sinister gaze which has a character both of fear and menace.
'I have received those letters, Captain Lake, of which I spoke to you when I last had the honour of seeing you, as furnishing, in certain circumstances connected with them, grave matter of suspicion, since when I have not received one with Mr. Wylder's signature. But I have received, only the other day, a letter from a new correspondent—a person signing himself James Dutton—announcing his belief that Mr. Mark Wylder is dead—is dead—and has been made away with by foul means; and I have arranged, immediately on his arrival, at his desire, to meet him professionally, and to hear the entire narrative, both of what he knows and of what he suspects.'
As Jos. Larkin delivered this with stern features and emphasis, the captain's countenance underwent such a change as convinced the attorney that some indescribable evil had befallen Mark Wylder, and that Captain Brandon Lake had a guilty knowledge thereof. With this conviction came a sense of superiority and a pleasant confidence in his position, which betrayed itself in a slight frown and a pallid smile, as he looked steadily in the young man's face, with his small, crafty, hungry eyes.
Lake knew that his face had betrayed him. He had felt the livid change of colour, and that twitching at his mouth and cheek which he could not control. The mean, tyrannical, triumphant gaze of the attorney was upon him, and his own countenance was his accuser.
Lake ground his teeth, and returned Jos. Larkin's intimidating smirk with a look of fury, which—for he now believed he held the winning cards—did not appal him.
Lake cleared his throat twice, but did not find his voice, and turned away and read half through the epitaph on Lady Mary Brandon, which is a pious and somewhat puritanical composition. I hope it did him good.
'You know, Sir,' said Captain Lake, but a little huskily, turning about and smiling at last, 'that Mark Wylder is nothing to me. We don't correspond: we have not corresponded. I know—upon my honour and soul, Sir—nothing on earth about him—what he's doing, where he is, or what's become of him. But I can't hear a man of business like you assert, upon what he conceives to be reliable information—situated as the Brandon title is—depending, I mean, in some measure, upon his life—that Mark Wylder is no more, without being a good deal shocked.'
'I quite understand, Sir—quite, Captain Lake. It is very serious, Sir, very; but I can't believe it has gone that length, quite. I shall know more, of course, when I've seen James Dutton. I can't think, I mean, he's been made away with in that sense; nor how that could benefit anyone; and I'd much rather, Captain Lake, move in this matter—since move I must—in your interest—I mean, as your friend and man of business—than in any way, Captain Lake, that might possibly involve you in trouble.'