“Yes, a good deal,” said Piper; “sit down again and don’t be so impatient. As to your conduct with regard to the bonds, I refuse to speak further about it on the present occasion. I must consult with Scrivener and one or two other members of the School, and shall probably summon you here any day within the next week or fortnight. In the meantime there are other matters to be talked over. We want fresh blood—the School won’t prosper without. What sort of a boy is that lad of yours?” “What lad?” asked Rowton, raising his head, but a startled expression all the same crossing his face. “You know the boy I mean—the son of the mad woman. Is he a plucky little chap?” “I refuse to say anything about him—he has nothing to do with you nor you with him.” “That’s as we may think best,” said Piper, with another sneer. “After all, I can get information apart from you. Scrivener, come here.” Scrivener, who had re-seated himself near the fire between Simpkins and another man with a particularly evil cast of face, now stepped lightly across the room. “Scrivener,” said Long John, “have you made good use of your time at Pitstow?” “Excellent, Piper,” replied the man. “I have mapped out the entire district. I know every room in every house, the amount of——” “That will do,” said Piper, raising his hand; “we can go into that matter at a less pressing moment than the present. What sort is Rowton’s boy?” “A fine lad,” said Scrivener. “You have seen him?” “Often.” “Describe him.” “Slim, dark, tall,” answered Scrivener; “plucky, a little dare-devil like his uncle there—in short, Silver himself in miniature.” “Suitable, do you think?” said Long John, looking fixedly at Scrivener. “Undoubtedly; the very lad for our purpose; heaps of go in him; don’t know the meaning of funk; slippery and agile as an eel.” “That will do, Scrivener,” said Long John. Scrivener retired down the room and Long John turned to Rowton. Rowton was standing perfectly upright with his back to the wall. He was looking straight before him down the long vista of the room. “Silver, you have disappointed me,” said Long John. “What I expected would happen, when you took it into your head to marry a wife, has happened. You are now half hearted, lukewarm. We don’t want lukewarm people here. Get you gone to Rowton Heights if you want to—that is, after you have delivered the swag to Scrivener and Simpkins. Yes, get you gone; take your holiday; kiss your wife, and make the most of her. Embrace your nephew, too, for if my plans are carried out, you won’t have him long. Now go. Hark ye, though, one moment. That safe was sent down to the Heights, was it not?” “I ordered it, but cannot tell if it has arrived,” replied Rowton. “I have been out of England for a month, and during that time I have had no news.” “The safe arrived weeks ago,” called out Scrivener from his seat by the fire.