“And a wise thought too,” urged Learmont. “What is your life to me were it not that you have surrounded me with danger? Do I thirst for your blood for its own sake? Certainly not—have your own price—bring me the boy, and destroy your written confession.” “And leave England for ever?” muttered Gray. “Yes—seek safety and enjoyment somewhere else in another land, where the finger of suspicion can never be pointed at you, and where you will only appear as the wealthy stranger.” “’Tis tempting,” said Gray; “but—” “But what?—Why do you hesitate?” “Would there be no danger even between the threshold of this house and the deck of the vessel which was to convey me and my fortunes from England for ever?” “Danger?—a—What danger?” “The assassin’s knife,” said Gray. “Hear me, Squire Learmont; if we could trust each other for so brief a space as half an hour, it might be done; but we cannot—you know we cannot!” “You refuse upon danger,” said Learmont, trying to smile, and producing a ghastly distortion of visage. “You are over cautious, Master Gray.” “I think not,” said Gray, “and yet I will think upon your offer, Squire Learmont. I will not deny that some scheme of the kind has already dawned upon my own mind. I will think upon your offer; and should some means occur to me by which safety can be so well assured as to be past a doubt, I will accept it, for I loathe the life I lead.” “’Tis well,” said Learmont. “And now I want a hundred pounds,” said Jacob Gray, in an affectedly submissive voice. “A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Learmont. “Yes, a hundred! And I will have them.” “Jacob Gray,” said Learmont, “why have I plunged myself into crime, and leagued myself with such men as you and Britton, but for this gold which your and his insatiable demands would wring from me?” “Agreed,” cried Gray. “But now ’tis done, and to keep the gibbet—” “The gibbet!” “Ay, the gibbet, Squire Learmont. To keep that without its victim, you must, and will pay the last farthing, if needs be, of that gold you talk of as your tempter. Why, it tempted me, and I will riot in it! A hundred pounds, good squire.” “Ten thousand are yours, if you bring me the boy and your written confession.” “Ten thousand! You may safely make it twenty, squire, or thirty.” “What do you mean?” “You call me cautious—cunning—wily as a fox, and am I all that; and because I am, I will not sell my life for five minutes at the utmost possession of any sum.” “Sell your life!” “Yes, my life. How many paces from this room would suffice to carry Jacob Gray to his grave, provided he gave up his two most rare securities—the boy and the confession?” “You wrong me by your suspicions,” said Learmont, with difficulty suppressing the rage that was swelling in his bosom. “A hundred pounds!” said Gray. “Jacob Gray, hear me—” “Hear me first. A hundred pounds!” Learmont went to a cabinet in the apartment, and without another word counted out the sum.