“Mr. Dunscomb!” she repeated, musingly. “Anna Updyke’s uncle Tom; and one whom such a story may very well set thinking. I wish it had not reached _him_, of all men, Mr. Timms.” “If I may judge of his opinions by some little acts and expressions that have escaped him, I am inclined to think he believes the story to be, in the main, true.” Mary Monson smiled; and, as was much her wont when thinking intensely, her lips moved; even a low muttering became audible to a person as near as her companion then was. “It is now time, Mr. Timms, to set the other story in motion,” she said, quickly. “Let one account follow the other; that will distract people’s belief. We must be active in this matter.” “There is less necessity for our moving in the affair, as Williams has got a clue to it, by some means or other; and his men will spread it far and near, long before the cause goes to the jury.” “That is fortunate!” exclaimed the prisoner, actually clapping her pretty gloved hands together in delight. “A story as terrible as _that_ must react powerfully, when its falsehood comes to be shown. I regard that tale as the cleverest of all our schemes, Mr. Timms.” “Why—yes—that is—I think, Miss Mary, it may be set down as the _boldest_.” “And this saucy Williams, as you call him, has got hold of it already, and believes it true!” “It is not surprising; there are so many small and probable facts accompanying it.” “I suppose you know what Shakspeare calls such an invention, Mr. Timms?” said Mary Monson, smiling. “I am not particularly acquainted with that author, ma’am I know there was such a writer, and that he was thought a good deal of, in his day; but I can’t say I have ever read him.” The beautiful prisoner turned her large expressive blue eyes on her companion with a gaze of wonder; but her breeding prevented her from uttering what she certainly thought and felt. “Shakspeare is a writer very generally esteemed,” she answered, after one moment of muttering, and one moment to control herself; “I believe he is commonly placed at the head of our English literature, if not at the head of that of all times and nations—Homer, perhaps, excepted.” “What! higher, do you think, Miss Mary, than Blackstone and Kent!” “Those are authors of whom I know nothing, Mr. Timms; but now, sir, I will listen to your errand here to-night.” “It is the old matter. Williams has been talking to me again, touching the five thousand dollars.” “Mr. Williams has my answer. If five thousand _cents_ would buy him off, he should not receive them from me.”