“Curse him!” Britton would growl over his cups, “I will have his life yet. Despite his cunning I will have his life!” Britten’s scheme of operations was more in accordance with his violent nature than any which Learmont could suggest to him. It was to dog Gray to his house, and then finding some means of admittance, either wring from his fears the secret of where he kept the written confession he talked so much of, and then kill him; or should that plan not succeed, take his life first, and trust to his powers of search to find the dangerous document somewhere in his abode. With this project in view, Britton had kept an eye on the house of Learmont, and followed Gray upon the river, as we have seen. Great was the rage of the smith at the utter failure of this, his first attempt to ferret out the hiding-place of Master Gray, which he began to think was by no means so easy a job as he had supposed. In fact, should Gray pursue the plan he had commenced so successfully, of turning upon his pursuer, the scheme would be fraught with the greatest difficulties. Moreover the smith could not conceal from himself that by his unsuccessful attempt he had put Gray upon his guard, which was the very last thing he should have risked. All these reflections put the smith in no very pleasant mood, when he repaired from the water-side to “The Chequers” and it was not until he had quaffed at two draughts a huge tankard of humming ale that he felt his equanimity at all restored. He then began to swear awfully, which unburdened his mind very much, and calling for another tankard, he shouted— “Landlord, come hither, man. Dip your red nose in the tankard.” The landlord, nothing loth, took a hearty draught of the ale, after which he smacked his lips with a knowing air, and looking intently at a fly-cage that hung from the ceiling he said in an abstracted tone,— “This ale is splendid—glorious. I must keep it for the worshipful Master Britton’s own drinking. I ought to do it—and I will do it.” “What are you muttering about?” roared the smith, taking up the empty-flagon, and bestowing a hard rap with it on the landlord’s head. “Bless us!” cried the host, rubbing the afflicted part. “I—I do believe I was in deep thought.” “Deep lies, you mean,” cried Britton. “You’ll keep the ale for me, will you?” Again the flagon touched not over gently the landlord’s head, and the smith was mightily amused at the wry faces he made. “Come—come, sit down, man,” he cried, “and don’t try to deceive me; you’ll keep the ale for me, will you?” “In a moment I will attend your worship,” said the landlord, bustling off as some one knocked furiously at the little wooden bar. “Now, by the Holy Well of Penseross, which they say was pure Rhenish wine,” muttered the landlord, when he was out of hearing of the smith, “I could see that rascal hung with as much pleasure as—as—as—”