“I had a motive, and since your candour has been such as to tell me of that little contrivance of yours about the packet you have left with such urgent directions, I will tell you my motive, and ha! Ha! We—we—shall better understand our relative situations.” “What was the motive?” “Can you form no guess?” “I cannot; how—how should I Britton?” “Did you lose nothing, ten years since?” “Yes—yes—I did lose a knife—but not here—not here!” “You did lose it here.” “And you found it, good Britton, and will give it to me. ’Twas an old keepsake from a friend. You will give it to me, Andrew Britton?” “Ha! Ha!” laughed the smith in his discordant manner. “You know the mind is free when safety is doubly secured.” “The knife—the knife!” cried the stranger, earnestly. “My name is—is—” “On the handle,” added Britton, “which makes it all the more valuable. You say it was a keepsake. It shall be a keepsake still. I will keep it for my own sake. I would not barter it for its worth in gold.” “Perhaps you have not got it.” “Do not please yourself with such a supposition, I will show it to you.” Britton walked to an old press which stood in an obscure and dark corner of the room, and then returned with a large knife in his hand, the blade of which opened and remained fast by touching a spring. “Do you know that?” he said, holding it to the eyes of his visitor. The man groaned. “Give it to me. Oh, give it to me, Britton,” he said. “No,” said the smith. “You have taught me a lesson, I shall write a confession and wrap it round this knife with ample directions to the nearest justice, in case anything should happen to me. Do you understand, my friend?” The man’s lips became white with fear, and he faltered— “If—if you will not give it me—take it away—out of my sight with it. It makes my blood curdle in my veins, and a cold perspiration hangs upon my brow. Curses! Curses! That I should have come thus far to be so tortured.” “Nay,” said the smith, in a tone of sneering exultation, “you shall be convinced. Look at that name upon the blood-stained haft.” “Away! Away, with it,” shrieked the stranger, covering his eyes with his hands. “Joseph Gray!” said Britton, reading the name on the knife. “Ha! Ha! Master Gray, is not this a damning evidence?” “Away! I say—oh, God, take it away.” “Nay, your curiosity shall be amply satisfied,” continued the smith, approaching his mouth closer to the ear of him who we shall henceforth call Gray. “It was a week before I—even I, savage Britton, as they call me, ventured to unbar that door, and when I did it was at midnight.” Gray shook with emotion and groaned deeply.