“Bolton? Yes.” “Of course you have, father,” said Phillip, eagerly. “Surely _he_ couldn’t have been such a wretch as to——” “Steady, my friends, steady,” said Captain Jack, coolly. “Don’t be in any flurry, either of ye, but answer me. Did he call at old Bertram’s? Did you order him to call there, and collect your debt?” “Yes you did, father. I heard you tell him to do so in my hearing, when last I saw you.” “I know I did, my son; but when you had gone I altered my mind, and sent Bolton in quite a different direction. He was not within fifty miles of Four Ash Farm, I’ll swear; that is, unless he went there unknown to me, and contrary to my orders.” A heavy sigh escaped from Phillip’s lips, and he felt a cold sweat upon his guilty brow, as he said, “I know you told him; but if you countermanded the order, of course that’s a different thing. It’s an awful charge to be accused of is murder.” “Yes, ain’t it?” said Captain Jack, with a wicked grin playing around his large mouth. “And robbery, too. Have neither of ye heard of it afore? Not a syllable?” “Never dreamed of such an abominable affair,” said Phillip. “Lor! how strange! and just to think as how this job has been in my hands more than a fortnight, and all the country knows it; but is this Mr. Bolton in your offices now?” “He is.” “Then let us have a squint at him. Order him in here, for I’ve got an exact description of the party who called at the farm-house; he was disguised.” The door was unlocked, and in a few moments young Mr. Bolton appeared. As he crossed the threshold, with a light step and pleasant smile, he suddenly caught the serious gaze of his master and young Redgill. “You sent for me, sir,” he began; but turned all manner of colours when he confronted his old master’s black looks. “What is all this?” he asked. “I am sorry to say, Mr. Bolton,” Phillip Redgill began, “that you are suspected of a most foul——” “Not so fast,” said Captain Jack, interrupting. “I understand my own business best and want no assistance from any one.” “Look you here, young man,” he began, addressing Mr. Bolton, “one of your master’s customers and old friends have been murdered, and you are one of the suspected parties.” “I?” “Yes, you; and all I’ve got to say is that I have got a warrant for your apprehension as being concerned in it, and you must come with me.” “Arrested on the charge of murder?” Bolton gasped, and he staggered towards the door, past Phillip Redgill, whose countenance wore a malicious smile of triumph. The news stunned the young man, and he would have rushed away from the spot. At that moment, however, Mr. Faulkner and another unprepossessing, ugly-looking member of the “Bakers’ dozen” appeared at the door, and politely collared the astonished youth. He was borne away to prison more dead than alive. But before Captain Jack left the private office he helped himself to another glass of wine, and, as he went out, whispered to Phillip,