“Of course,” said the other, “you may depend he has something worth while about him.” “No doubt—no doubt.” “Gentlemen—gentlemen,” said Gray, pouring himself out another glass, “here’s to—to—our better—ac—acquaintance.” “Hurrah!” cried Bill, “that’s yer sort.” “And—confusion to Andrew Britton,” added Gray, dealing the table a heavy blow with his fist. “Confusion, death, and damnation to Andrew Britton.” “Bravo! Bravo!” “You’ll take a hundred. Mind only a hundred. Don’t rob me—no—no, don’t rob me. It’s been too hard to get, with the—the curse of blood clinging to it. The curse of blood.” “Oh, that’s it, old fellow,” cried Bill. “She—she to betray me,” muttered Gray “she of all others; I might have killed her—I will kill her. Some slow and horrible death shall be hers. I’ll hack your flesh from your bones, Ada—I will—I will—one word and you die. I must shoot him—he seeks my life.” “Here’s a beauty,” remarked Bill, to his comrade, who had very calmly lighted a fire, and sat listening to Gray’s revelations with all the composure in the world, as if he had merely been present at some ordinary dramatic entertainment. “Three thousand pounds would be enough,” said Gray, tossing off another bumper of the drugged wine, and smashing the glass with the vehemence with which he replaced it on the table. “Three thousand. Yes, yes; enough to lead a life of—of riot somewhere else. Not here—not here. Then I should read of his execution, or both their executions, and—when I was dull, I would bring out the newspaper that had the account, and I’d read it over and over again. I’ll wash my hands in her blood. I’ll smash her face till—till there’s not a lineament remains to horrify me by reminding me of her.” “’Pon my soul,” remarked Bill, “we have hit on an out-and-outer.” “Rather,” said the other, without taking the pipe from his mouth. “Don’t look at me!” suddenly cried Gray, springing to his feet. “Don’t glare at me with your stony eyes! Clear away—clear away. Do you want to stop my breath—I—I—must go—go—from here—there—there; help—save me. What do you do here—one—two—three. Why do you point at me? You would have your deaths. You—you—why do you not remain and rot in the Old Smithy? Save me from him. His wounds are bleeding still. Will the damp earth never soak up all the blood? You—you I shot. Don’t grin at me. Away—away—I am going mad—mad—Ada—Ada—Ada—pray—pray for me!” He reeled around twice, and fell upon the floor with a deep groan. CHAPTER LVII. Ada’s Escape.—The Magistrate.—Ada’s Ignorance of London Localities.—Learmont’s Fright.