The dark eyes of the Squire of Learmont flashed with rage, as Gray gave utterance to this taunt, and when the last echo of his retreating footsteps had died away, Britton broke the silence that ensued, by saying,— “Yon knave knows his power.” “Aye, does he!” cried Learmont, striking the table with his clenched hand. “But we, Britton, are not altogether powerless.” “What can we do?” said the smith. “Jacob Gray and his secret must perish together.” “With all my heart, squire, but the fellow’s caution is so excessive, that we are more interested in his preservation than his destruction.” “True,” replied Learmont. “His caution is great, as you say, but there are times when the most cautious are off their guard. Remember this, Britton, that every guinea that finds its way into the purse of Jacob Gray, is a guinea torn from you.” “I know it,” cried the smith, “and I would have scattered his brains upon the hearth-stone of the Old Smithy, but that he averred he had taken the precaution of leaving the written statement of all he knew at home, to be opened if he returned not within a given time, and although I doubted that he had done so, even to the verge of positive disbelief, yet was the risk too great, and I let him live.” “For a time—only for a time,” said Learmont. A grim smile crossed the face of Britton, as he said; “Should Jacob Gray die suddenly, and leave no trace behind, him, shall I be entitled to the whole of what is now divided?” “You shall,” cried Learmont, eagerly. “Assure me of the death of this man, who, from my soul, I abhor, and I will add to rather than diminish the sum, which will now be divided between you, and further, mark me, Master Britton. Should you find it in your way to dispose quietly and surely of—of that one being who stands between me and the assurance of my safety—” “You mean the boy?” “I do.” “It would be worth a large price, Squire Learmont, to rid you of Jacob Gray—the boy, and place in your hands the document which the wily Jacob has composed.” “It would be worth a price,” cried Learmont, “so high a price that—that, Britton, you should yourself name it, and then, be it what it might, couple it with but the condition that you leave England for ever, and it is yours.” “’Tis a tempting offer,” said the smith. “I mean it to be such,” replied Learmont. “Insinuate yourself, Britton, into the confidence of this man, Gray; steal his very heart’s inmost secrets; make common cause with him; get inmates at his home, and then—then take some propitious moment to possess yourself of his written confession, if he have really produced one, and crush him at a blow.” “I should name thousands as the price of such a piece of work,” said the smith. “Name thousands, if you will. You shall have them.” “Agreed, then, Squire Learmont, I accept the work. We shall meet in London.” “Yes, in London.”