“No, Jacob Gray,” cried Learmont, “that tale will do no more. We have hunted you down. It is not probable that the cautious Jacob Gray has trusted the boy we seek with the secret of his birth.” “You are right,” said Gray, “I have not.” “And you are candid,” sneered Learmont. “Ho! Ho!” laughed Britton. “Poor Jacob Gray has forgotten even to lie—” “Exactly,” snarled Gray, “because the truth will do as well. That is a piece of philosophy which the muddled brains of savage Britton would never have conceived.” Britton made a furious rush at Gray, but the latter stepped behind Learmont, saying,—“It is still the interest of Squire Learmont to protect Jacob Gray.” “Hold, Britton,” cried Learmont. “Stay your arm yet a moment. We—we will hear him.” “You need not be alarmed, squire,” said Gray. “Our relative positions are still the same.” “How mean you? Your retreat is discovered.” “True, but—” “And the confession which has hitherto ensured your safety, must be here, and easily found, else it were valueless, and would defeat its object.” “Indeed!” said Gray. “Now, hear me. The boy is not here! The confession is in his hands.” Learmont trembled as he slowly dropped the point of his sword, and fixed his eyes upon Jacob Gray’s countenance, as if he would read his very soul. “Go on, go on,” he said. “I repeat, the boy has the confession. He knows not what it is. It is sealed.” “Well. Go—go—on.” “But he has express instructions, which, be assured, he will fulfil to the letter; that if he and I do not meet at an appointed spot, by an appointed hour, he is to hasten to Sir Francis Hartleton, and deliver the packet. You understand my position, Squire Learmont? And even your dull-pated Britton may now see the expediency of being careful of your dear friend, Jacob Gray. Fancy any delay being thrown in my way now, which should prevent me from meeting the boy. How disagreeable it would be to me to see hung, kind Britton, while I had my free pardon in my pocket for being evidence against you. Do you understand?” There was a most remarkable difference in the expression of the smith’s countenance and that of Learmont’s, while Gray was speaking. The former became nearly purple with suppressed rage, while the squire turned of an ashy, ghastly paleness, and seemed scarcely equal to the exertion of standing erect. “Gray—Jacob Gray,” he gasped. “You do not—you cannot mean that—that—” “That what, squire?” said Gray. “Why do you hesitate? I will answer any question; candidly.” “Have you,” continued Learmont, “indeed set all our lives in such a chance as your meeting a boy at an appointed hour in this great city?” “I have,” answered Gray; “or rather I should say you have.” “Yes, Squire Learmont, you thirst for my blood! You would hunt me to death could you do so with safety to yourself! Beware! I say, and give up the chance!“