"I do not think so," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "If I proceed too rapidly, I shall alarm her, instead of inflaming her imagination. Besides, you judge the world by what you yourself are, and by what you know of me. But, frail and guilty as I am, Henry," she added in an impressive tone, "believe me when I declare my conviction that more virtue is to be found in woman than you would be inclined to suspect." Sir Henry laughed heartily at this observation; then, rising from his seat, he took up his hat, saying, "At all events, dearest Martha, act so that I may present you with the cheque as soon as possible." He kissed her, and departed from the house, chuckling at the success of his endeavour to make his mistress the instrument of his diabolical design against the pure—the beautiful—the unsuspecting Rosamond. CHAPTER XXXVII. TOM RAIN AND JACOB. It was Saturday evening; and Rainford was proceeding up Gray's Inn Lane, wrapped in his white great coat, and with a woollen "comforter" reaching up almost to his nose, when he suddenly felt some one pull him by the sleeve. He turned round, and, by the light of a lamp, beheld the lad Jacob. "Well, you young rascal!" exclaimed Tom—but with an anger more affected than real, for he was not a man to cherish vindictive feelings towards an enemy so utterly unworthy his resentment as that pale, weak, and sickly boy: "I wonder you have the face to accost me, after joining in that abominable scheme to intrude upon the privacy of my dwelling three or four nights ago." "I hope you will forgive me, Mr. Rainford," said the lad: "for you _must_ know," added he emphatically, "it wasn't altogether my fault. I was bound to obey the man who gave me food. But do you know, sir, what has become of _him_? Oh! Mr. Rainford—I am well aware that he _did_ deserve punishment at your hands; but—pray forgive me—I hope——" "You hope that I did not kill him?" said the highwayman in a deep, hollow-toned voice. "Why—do you suppose that I am a likely person to commit murder—intentionally?" "Oh! no—no," replied the boy. "And yet——" "And yet what?" asked Rainford. "And yet it is so strange that he should never have been seen at any of his usual haunts," added Jacob. "Come along with me," said Rainford abruptly. "We cannot stand talking in the street—and I want to have some conversation with you. But do you know any place close at hand—any public-house, I mean—where we could have a private room for an hour or so?" "Yes, sir," replied Jacob, after a moment's reflection. "This way." He turned abruptly down into a narrow, dark, dirty thoroughfare, called Baldwin's Gardens, and conducted the highwayman into a low public-house, where, upon inquiry, they were immediately accommodated, with a private room on the second floor.