When Learmont was once more alone, and the echo of the retiring footsteps of Albert Seyton had died away, he muttered indistinctly to himself for some moments. Then, as he grew more confident in the success of some stratagem which he had connived, he spoke with a tone of exultation. “Yes,” he said, “fortune has favoured me with the best chance yet of discovering the hiding place of Jacob Gray. This youth must be unknown to him, and surely will succeed in dogging him to his haunt. That once discovered, and an hour shall not elapse without witnessing his dissolution, I can set this young man too upon Britton. The grand difficulty in circumventing these fellows has always consisted in the want of unsuspected persons to mingle with them. This youngster looks bold and capable; he will surely be successful in taking him, and, should his curiosity grow clamorous, he is easily disposed of. What matters it to me a few more lives!—I am already steeped in gore—steeped—steeped; but then I have my reward—wealth—honours—and—and enjoyment, of course. Ha! What noise was that?” Some slight creaking of an article of furniture sent the blood with a frightful rush to his heart, and he remained for several moments trembling excessively, and clutching the edge of the oaken table for support. Then, with a deep sigh, he again spoke,— “’Twas nothing—nothing. I have grown strangely nervous of late. I was not wont to be so tremblingly alive to every slight alarm. Is it age creeping upon me, or the shadow of some impending evil upon my heart? Learmont—Learmont, be thyself. Shake off these vapours of the brain. I—I have been ten times worse since I saw that face upon my door step. God of heaven! How like it was to one who sleeps the sleep of death. I—I cannot stay here. This room seems peopled with shapes. Hence—hence—I am going—I am going—going.” He slowly crept to the door, and kept softly muttering unintelligible words with his cold, livid lips, till he had passed out, and closed the door after him. Laughter at this moment reached his ears from the servants’ hall, and he smote his forehead with his clenched hand, as he exclaimed,— “Why can I not laugh? Why has no smile ever lighted my face for years? Am I a thing accursed? Others have spilt blood as well as I, and they have not been thus haunted. I will go out. There seems in the house to be ever close to me some hideous, unfashioned form, whose hot breath comes on my cheek, and whose perpetual presence is a hell. Yes—I—I will go out—out!” CHAPTER LXII. Jacob Grey in the Hampstead Fields.—The Placard.—The Reward.