“Find ha place. Get ha hempty ’ouse somewhere, hand fix hup ha room to receive ’er.”
“Well, I’ll look up the house, and to-morrow evening meet me here about this time to arrange our plans in a definite manner. There must be no bungling work; the girl is to disappear in such a manner that we leave behind no trace by which we may be followed.”
“Trust hus for that.”
“Then you can return to your cards and I will try to get a little sleep. This riding about is enough to wear out a man made of any thing less durable than cast-iron.”
Tom left the room, when the door was locked from within. For some time, Turner stood looking musingly out the window. Not until the clock, striking nine, had aroused him from his reverie, did he throw himself upon the bed for the needed rest and sleep.
When the tory arose the next morning, he passed half an hour in private conference with Jim Fagan; and, though he did not betray any of the secrets intrusted to his keeping, he nevertheless, for a consideration, received—or rather was to receive—valuable assistance. Fagan undertook to provide the room in which the young girl was to be imprisoned, although he abstained from mentioning that it would be in an unrented building which belonged to him.
In the afternoon, Fagan took Preston’s agent to see the house.
It was a little stone structure, which looked as though it might have been a hundred years old. Standing almost alone, near the edge of town—massive, strong, its walls impenetrable to sound—a more desirable place could not be found. The windows were closed with shutters, and the building appeared deserted; but when the Irishman knocked at the door, it was opened by a grim-looking old negress, who surlily surveyed the party, and seemed more inclined to slam the door in their faces than to ask them to enter.
Fagan requested her to show the furnished room up-stairs. The negress seemed scarcely to understand what was wanted of her, but at length led them up the stairway. The room chosen charmed the eye of Turner. The windows were secured with thick, oaken shutters, guarded on the inside by padlocks, the door was strongly made, and the strength of the lock precluded the possibility of a future inmate’s forcing it. The furniture was simple. A table, a dressing-stand, half a dozen chairs and a bedstead. There were no clothes on the bed, but Fagan expressed himself willing to furnish these.
Perfectly satisfied with every thing, Turner withdrew, and, after some conversation with the negress, Fagan followed. Thus the preliminaries were settled, and that evening, when Tom Blanchard and Timothy Turner met, it was agreed that in the second succeeding night the attempt should be made.