An open letter lay before him which he occasionally referred to, as if to guide the wandering current of his thoughts, and after perusing several times he rose from his seat, and for a time walked backwards and for in the room in silence—then he spoke in indistinct and muttered sentences. “Surely,” he muttered, “I may at last venture to enjoy what I have plunged so deeply to obtain. What a vast accumulation of wealth have I not now in my grasp, and shall I longer hesitate? Have I not now the means to sit down by royalty and outvie its grandeur? I have—ample—ample. Again let me read the dear assurance of unbounded wealth. Truly, this money scrivener has done his duty with the large sums I have entrusted to his care. Let me see.” He stood by the table, and again perused the letter in an audible voice. Noble and Honoured Sir,—Agreeable to your most kind instructions I send an account of the disposal of all the moneys from time to time entrusted by your most noble worship, to the care of your most humble servant. Your honour will perceive by the annexed schedule, that like a river augmented by a thousand little streams, you honour’s real property has swollen to nearly one million sterling. “A million,” cried Learmont, drawing himself up to his full height and casting a flashing glance around him. “A million pieces of those golden slaves that are ever ready to yield enjoyment. A million of those glittering sprites which are more powerful than the genii of old romance. Can I not now triumph? What refinement of life—what exquisite enjoyments can now be denied to me!” The door now softly opened, and an old servant appeared. “What now?” cried Learmont abruptly. “Britton, the smith, comes for your worship’s orders,” said the servant. A gloom spread itself over the countenance of Learmont. “Show him this way,” he said, as he sank into a chair with his back to the light. “He brings one with him, too, who craves to see your worship.” “No! No!” cried Learmont, springing to his feet. “’Tis false—false as hell. Has he dared to—to—the villain!—His own destruction is as certain.” The domestic looked amazed, but before he could make any remark, Britton the smith, accompanied by Jacob Gray, stood on the threshold of the door. The hand of Learmont was plunged deep beneath the breast of his coat, as he said. “Well? What—who is that?” “A friend,” said Britton, in a low voice. For a moment Learmont regarded the face of the smith with attentive earnestness, and then slowly withdrawing his hand, which had doubtless clasped some weapon of defence, he said to the servant, “Leave the room. Well, Britton; I—I am glad you have come about the—steel gauntlets. Leave the room, I say.” The servant who had lingered from curiosity, reluctantly left and closed the door.