“I tell you,” said William, with something like decision in his voice, “that I will not do any wrong to these young men if they live.” “Who asks you to do a wrong to them?--booby! Perhaps I may be the best friend they may have yet--ay, or you too, though you’re the ungratefulest whimsicallist sort of a son of a gun that ever I came across. Come, help yourself, and don’t roll up your eyes in that way, like a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye!” Here the speaker paused a moment, and with a graver and more natural tone of voice proceeded: “So you did not believe me when I told you that these brothers were dead, and you have been to the Mortons to learn more?” “Yes.” “Well, and what have you learned?” “Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know that they are alive, but he says also that he does not know that they are dead.” “Indeed,” said the other, listening with great attention; “and you really think that he does not know anything about them?” “I do, indeed.” “Hum! Is he a sort of man who would post down the rhino to help the search?” “He looked as if he had the yellow fever when I said I was poor,” returned William, turning round, and trying to catch a glimpse at the fire, as he gulped his brandy and water. “Then I’ll be d---d if I run the risk of calling. I have done some things in this town by way of business before now; and though it’s a long time ago, yet folks don’t forget a haundsome man in a hurry--especially if he has done ‘em! Now, then, listen to me. You see, I have given this matter all the ‘tention in my power. ‘If the lads be dead,’ said I to you, ‘it is no use burning one’s fingers by holding a candle to bones in a coffin. But Mr. Beaufort need not know they are dead, and we’ll see what we can get out of him; and if I succeeds, as I think I shall, you and I may hold up our heads for the rest of our life.’ Accordingly, as I told you, I went to Mr. Beaufort, and--‘Gad, I thought we had it all our own way. But since I saw you last, there’s been the devil and all. When I called again, Will, I was shown in to an old lord, sharp as a gimblet. Hang me, William, if he did not frighten me out of my seven senses!” Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt, already discovered that the speaker was no less a personage) took three or four nervous strides across the room, returned to the table, threw himself in a chair, placed one foot on one hob, and one on the other, laid his finger on his nose, and, with a significant wink, said in a whisper, “Will, he knew I had been lagged! He not only refused to hear all I had to say, but threatened to prosecute--persecute, hang, draw, and quarter us both, if we ever dared to come out with the truth.” “But what’s the good of the truth if the boys are dead?” said William, timidly.