“It would, indeed, be a glorious revenge,” he mattered, “on both Britton and Learmont to accumulate an ample fortune first, and then, when my foot was on the very deck of the vessel that was to bear me from England for ever, to hail some idle lounger on the quay, and bid him take this to Sir Francis Hartleton, and ask his own reward. Yes, if I had half a million, that would be worth as much again. The time will come—yes—it will—it must come—when I have got enough money first, and then my revenge. Ye taunt me, Squire Learmont, and you, Britton, too, with my cunning—Ha! Ha! I am cunning, it is true—I am too cunning for your dull wits. Jacob Gray will be too much for you both when he has enough money!” Suddenly then he now dropped the paper, and started; a slight noise outside his door met his ears, and his guilty soul trembled. “What—what noise was that?” he whispered. “Ada—yes—Ada,—Ah! It must be Ada!” In order to explain the sound that disturbed the gleeful cogitations of Jacob Gray, we must follow Ada to her chamber, whither, as the reader will recollect, she repaired after her very brief conversation with her gaoler Gray. The moment Ada found herself in the privacy of her own room she burst into tears, and a fervent “thank Heaven!” burst from her lips. The necessity of instant action and self-possession, however, rushed simultaneously across her mind, and dashing away the tears with the brief exclamation of,— “My promise no longer binds me—I am free to act,” she hastily wrote on a slip of paper, the following words:— “To Albert Seyton,—Ada is betrayed—seek her in a Lone House by the river.” She then concealed the paper in her bosom, and, commending herself to Heaven, with a beating heart she descended the staircase. Her object now was to pass the door of the room in which was Gray, without arousing his attention; but this was a matter of no ordinary difficulty in that old house, for the staircase was so ancient and dilapidated that it creaked and groaned under the slightest pressure. Taking, however, as much of her weight off the stairs as possible, by clinging to a stout rail, which was supported firmly by the wall, Ada slowly descended. She reached the landing, from which opened the door of the room in which was Gray, in safety. To pass that door was dreadful, and Ada thought each moment that her strength would desert her, and all would be discovered. The life of poor Maud, she felt certain, hung upon the slightest thread, and this thought nerved Ada more than any consciousness of personal danger would have done. Creeping cautiously along, she reached the door—one moment, then she paused, and the sound of Jacob Gray’s voice, as he muttered his unholy thoughts came clearly upon her overstrained senses.