“Then Haeket was the person who devised and attempted my murder?” I exclaimed.
“No—another sought your life. He was but the agent of that person.”
“By whom, then, was the wretch employed?”
“Of that I am utterly uninformed; and, strange as it may appear, Hacket was left in equal ignorance. If any knew the secret, it was the murdered man—and with him it rests. Have you no suspicions? Have you crossed the path of love, or barred the road to wealth? Are there any whose interests you have thwarted? Are you an object of hatred or of fear?”
I shook my head; but Mr. Hartley replied to the inquiry.
“There are, Alary—and more than one, the dearest objects of whose hearts this youth will one day overturn, as the child throws down the card edifice in a moment, which has cost him a world of pains to build.”
“Look there, Hector O’Halloran! There will your secret enemy be found.”
“Right, by heaven! You are on the sure track, my friend,” returned my uncle. “Where will deadlier feeling harbour than in the bosom of a monk, thwart but his ambition? or in that of a sordid scoundrel, who trembles for wealth acquired by knavery? Were you acquainted with recent occurrences in which our young friend has been connected, my life upon it, your conviction would be confirmed as to the quarter from which the danger came.”
“And am I not worthy of that confidence?” inquired the gipsy, in a tone that showed herself offended.
“Undoubtedly,” returned Mr. Hartley. “One day more, and I will give you ample proof of the dependence I place in your fidelity and discretion. That day I would devote to my young friend. It is the last he will pass in England for a time.”