"We are alone, my Lord, and not one word that passes between us need ever be repeated outside this cell," said Robin; "that is, if you agree to my terms. Otherwise, I may feel compelled to make terms with your cousin, who would be the inheritor if you were—illegitimate, and your _elder brother_ were—could be induced to waive his claim." Lord Beachcombe bent a furtive but piercing regard upon the prisoner. "And how can you answer for him?" he asked, slowly weighing his words. "If I buy you off, I may have to fight him in the law courts afterward. Oh! ’tis intolerable—it’s a conspiracy—it must be a lie—my father a bigamist!—my mother—! Villain, you shall hang for calling me bastard, if for nothing else." "I think not," said Robin. "Your unborn child may be a son, whose fate hangs upon your word. The rightful heir values my life so highly, that he himself has instigated this offer. He is willing to give all his documents in exchange for my life and liberty. Furthermore, for a sum of money sufficient to carry him abroad and start him in life, he will sign a deed, if you will have one drawn up, resigning all claims on the title or estates of Beachcombe. Is that explicit enough?" During this speech, Lord Beachcombe had quieted down, and was now seated opposite the prisoner, whom he regarded with fixed attention. "What does your claimant call himself? Under what name is he known?" he demanded abruptly. "You can not know it without perusing the documents," said Robin, "and you can not do that until I am free to bring them to you myself." "I tell you," exclaimed the earl pettishly, "that you overestimate my influence. How can I obtain the pardon of a highwayman who attacked the Lord Archbishop?" "I took nothing from his grace but his wig!" cried Robin, with a boisterous laugh, "and so that he might not catch cold in his venerable head, I gave him in exchange a comfortable cotton nightcap, that had once been the property of the Mayor of York! ’Twas a fair exchange, and methinks the archbishop would scarcely wish me hanged for a joke, when I might have stripped him of a coachful of treasure." Lord Beachcombe rose. "There are yet three days," he said grudgingly. "I’ll see what can be done." "Three days for _me_, my Lord, but not for you," said Robin significantly. "I must know by this time to-morrow what my chances are with you, for the letter I was inditing to your cousin Francis can not be delayed longer than that." "Francis!" sneered Lord Beachcombe. "What do you imagine he can do for you? A man whose name is hardly known at court! An indolent recluse; a mere bumpkin!" "For me? Probably nothing," Robin replied, in a stern, threatening tone. "But what can he do for you, with those papers in his possession? I may be dead before they reach him, but my revenge will be sure, in his hands." "Do you suppose he will put himself out for you—_your claimant_? You evidently don’t know Francis."