“What can this mean?” thought Learmont; then he said, aloud,— “Who am I—you say you know me?” “You—you didn’t think it,” said the man, with much drunken cunning; “but I watched you home.” “You watched me home?” “Yes,—to be sure. Don’t be frightened; I—I saw you go in. Oh! oh!” “Indeed!” said Learmont, who was determined to humour his singular companion. “Yes, I believe you, I—I thought you’d be surprised; and so you are: it’s ex—extraordinary, ain’t it?” “Oh! Very.” “Well, I’ll do it—you recollect my name?” “Perfectly.” “Of course you do. Sheldon, you know.” “Sheldon is your name.” “Yes, you know. There isn’t a waterman on the river as—as—can drink like me.” “You are a waterman, then?” “You—know I am.” “Of course. Oh, yes, of course I do,” said Learmont. “Well then, you know—I—can keep my own counsel—it’s extra—extraordinary how clever I—am.” “Quite remarkable.” “Well—I—I—watched—you home, and I heard you—a talking to—the—boy—” “The boy?” “Yes. You keep him shut up—in the haunted—house—oh! oh!—I’ve watched you—you—see.” “The boy?” repeated Learmont. “Yes, yes, the boy. I climbed up at the back of—of the old house, you see.” “Yes, yes,” said Learmont, eagerly, “and you saw—” “Nothing.” “Nothing?” “D—d—damned a thing—but I heard you—” “And—the boy? You heard the boy? A boy’s voice?” “No, I didn’t.” “You said so.” “No, I didn’t—don’t in—in—insult me!” “My good friend, I would not insult you on any consideration. I am mistaken—I thought you said you heard a boy’s voice.” “The—the—then—you thought wrong.” “Exactly.” “You are—a—f—f—fool—a ex—extraordinary fool.” “Well,” said Learmont, in an oily voice, “you saw the boy?” “Ah, now,” cried his drunken companion, “now you have hit it. I’ll just tell you how—I—I cir—circum—navi—no, that ain’t it, circum—ventated you.” “Do,” said Learmont. ”You are exceedingly clever.” “I know it. Well, I heard you talking to some one, and I went from window to window to try to see in, you know, and at one of ’em I saw him.” “The boy?” “Yes—to—to be sure.” “Did you hear him speak?” “I—I believe you—” “Well—well.” “Says he, in a mournful kind o’ way, says he,—what do you think now?” “Really, I cannot tell.” “Oh, but it’s ex—extraordinary, because you see that’s how—I found out your name, you see.” “My name, Master Sheldon?” “Yes, your name.” “No, you don’t know it. You cannot know it.” “N—n—not know it?” “Well, what is it, then, if you do know it?” “Gray, to be sure.” “Gray!” cried Learmont, with so sharp a cry, that the man jumped again; and would have fallen had not Learmont clutched him tightly by the arm. “Ye—ye—yes,” stammered the drunken man, in whom the reader has already recognised Sheldon, the waterman, to whom Gray had proposed the murder of Britton. “You are sure? on your life—on your soul, you are sure the name was Gray?”