For an instant Ada passed her hands upon her eyes, as if to shut out the hideous phantasma of a dreadful dream, and then, with a cry of exquisite anguish, she rushed through the folding doors and closed them immediately after her. “That—that will succeed,” gasped Gray, wiping from his brow the cold perspiration that hung there in bead-like drops. “The lie is effective; she may not believe it, but now she has not time to think. She will save me now!” He rushed to the door of the room which led to the staircase, and in a moment locked it. Then he stood with his arms folded, and an awful demoniac smile played upon his pale and ghastly face, awaiting the issue of the next few minutes, which comprised to him the fearful question of life or death. CHAPTER XXV. The Escape.—Taunts.—The Confession.—Learmont’s Rage and Discomfiture. But few moments remained to Jacob Gray for sad or exultant communion with his own thoughts. A heavy blow from without dashed the door open, and Learmont, with a drawn sword in his hand, closely followed by Britton, carrying a lighted link, entered the room. “Well met; Jacob Gray,” cried Learmont. “Your cunning is now at fault. You are scarcely a match for Squire Learmont, who you thought you had so safely in your toils.” “Ho! Ho!” sneered Britton, holding the torch close to the pale, agitated face of Gray. “So we have unearthed the fox at last. Cunning—clever Master Jacob Gray—amazingly artful Master Gray.” “You have triumphed but for a short time,” added Learmont. “Your own cunning has been your destruction, Jacob Gray, your life is not now worth five minutes’ purchase.” “Taunt on,” said Gray, “I know not what you mean or what you want.” “Well you know,” cried Learmont, angrily, “you had a double hold upon my fears, Jacob Gray, but that double hold depended upon a slender foundation. So long as you could keep your hiding-place secret you were safe, but no longer.” “I—I still do not understand you,” said Gray, who was anxious to give Ada some time to complete the change he did not doubt she was making in her apparel. “Ha! Ha!” laughed Learmont. “It were a thousand pities you should die in ignorance of what had been the result of your extreme cleverness, Jacob Gray. Suppose me, as I shall be now, possessed of the boy, and the confession, which of course, must be somewhere handy, else it is objectless.” “Well—well,” said Gray, trembling, “suppose all that.” “Ho! Ho! Ho!” chuckled the smith. “Upon my soul that’s good, cunning Jacob—clever, artful, deep-designing Jacob. Why, supposing all that we mean to cut your throat.” “We waste time,” cried Learmont. “Where is the boy?” “Ay, the boy, the cherub, the boy!” cried Britton. “He is not here,” said Gray, with as much boldness as he could assume. Learmont gave a smile of contempt as he said,—