"And what may that be? Ha, I remember you now, the English gent that was a goin' out to Chillicothe some months back, and had so many questions to ask about Dr. Clendenin. Curse him! Well, did ye find it all out?" "It?" "Yes, it, whatever you wanted to know." "Yes; I found out, what I suspected before, that he is very much in my way: and--but before I lay my plans open to you I must have your promise, your oath of secrecy." "Them's easy given," the fellow answered with an unpleasant laugh; "I promise and swear never to tell no tales consarnin' what you're agoin' to say." "Very well. Clendenin is travelling in this direction, with no companion but a young negro servant who, I take it, is neither very brave nor strong." A malicious gleam of satisfaction shone in Brannon's eyes. Lyttleton noted it with pleasure. "We could not have a better opportunity," he went on; "you who have an old score against him, and I who find him as I just said entirely too much in my way." "What are you at, mister, out with it plump and plain," Brannon said with an impatient gesture and a volley of oaths, as Lyttleton came to a pause and looked hesitatingly at him. "I ain't no fancy for this 'ere beating about the bush. Is it his life you want, or not?" "No, no; I'm no murderer!" Lyttleton exclaimed with a shudder and a fearful glance from side to side. "But patience, man, and I'll explain in a few words. We'll call this doctor a mad fellow, perhaps it isn't so very far from the truth, ha, ha, and we'll take him prisoner, and keep him such somewhere in these woods until I can make arrangements to remove him to a mad house." Brannon listened with a grim smile. "But look ye here, stranger," he interrupted, "what if he should get free and peach on us?" "We must take care that he doesn't; and I'll make it worth your while to take the risk. Can you get help in capturing him?" Brannon nodded. "Here comes one now that'll bear a hand willingly if you give him his price;" and as he spoke he waved his hand toward a tall, burly figure just emerging from the wood a few paces from them. "Dree of us," muttered Hans, watching its approach; "dat ish pooty goot; and mynheer, too; dree, four against two. We takes dem brisoner mitout fail." The last comer was drawing near with long and rapid strides. "What's that?" he asked sharply and bringing his rifle to his shoulder. "Ah, is it you, Jack! what's up?" "Yes, it's me, Bill Shark," answered Brannon. "Come on; here's a gent as has a job suited to the likes of us." As the fellow came near enough for a distinct view of his features, Lyttleton involuntarily shrank from him, so brutal and forbidding was their expression. But recovering himself instantly, he repeated substantially, and under the same promise of secrecy, what he had been saying to Brannon.