“What 'ud you think if there was sich a thing as revinge in the world? I'm not suspectin' any one, but at the same time, a woman's revinge is the worst and deepest of all revinges. You know very well that she suspects you—and, indeed, so does the world.”
“But very wrongly, you know, Anthony,” replied the baronet, with a smile dark as murder.
“Why, ay, to be sure,” replied the instrument, squirting the tobacco spittle into the fire, and turning on him a grin that might be considered a suitable commentary upon the smile of his employer.
“But,” added Mr. Gourlay, “what if it should be the father, instead of the son, they want?”
“But why would they be dodgin' about the child, sir?”
“True; it is odd enough. Well, I shall give orders to have him well watched.”
“And, with the help o' God, I'll put a mark upon him that'll make him be known, at any rate, through all changes, barrin' they should take his life.”
“How do you mean by a mark!” asked the other.
“I learnt it in the army, sir, when I was with Sir Edward. It's done by gunpowder. It can do no harm, and will at any time durin' his life make him known among millions. It can do no harm, at any rate, sir.”
“Very well, Anthony—very well,” replied Mr. Gourlay; “mark him as you like, and when it is done, let me see it.”