“No,” replied the other, “I shall not; and you must consider yourself my prisoner. You not only do not deny, but seem to admit, the charge of robbery, and you shall not pass out of my hands until you render me an account of the person from whom you took this note. You see,” he added, producing a case of pistols—for, in accordance with the hint he had received in the anonymous note, he resolved never to go out without them—“I am armed, and that resistance is useless.”
The man gave a proud but ghastly smile, as he replied—dropping his stick, and pulling from his bosom a pair of pistols much larger, and more dangerous than those of the stranger,
“You see, that if you go to that I have the advantage of you.”
“Tell me,” I repeat, “what has become of Mr. Fenton, from whom you took it.”
“Fenton!” exclaimed the other, with surprise; “is that the poor young man that's not right in his head?”
“The same.”
“Well, I know nothing about him.”
“Did you not rob him of this note?”
“No.”
“You did, sir; this note was in his possession; and I fear you have murdered him I besides. You must come with me,”—and as he spoke, our friend, Trailcudgel, saw two pistols, one in each hand, levelled at him. “Get on before me, sir, to the town of Ballytrain, or, resist at your peril.”