"Mr. Ferguson is very partial to you, that's all I can say. He wouldn't let me be away for a couple of hours, in the morning, even if I did have _important_ business." "I have no doubt he would. I hope you won't be disturbed if I tell you that I am going out again this afternoon." "And you get twice as much pay as I," said Maurice, with dissatisfaction. "I say it's a shame." "You must remember, Maurice, that I don't fix the salaries. If I could fix it so, your salary should be raised at once, so as to equal mine." "It's easy to say that," said Maurice Walton, discontentedly. Gilbert, in spite of the discontent of his fellow-clerk, took his hat at half-past two, and left the store. He reached the Burnet House about ten minutes of three, and went at once to the reading-room, where he was to meet his uncle. Mr. Grey was already in waiting. He was seated in an arm-chair, looking over a file of the New York _Herald_. "I have come, Mr. Grey," said Gilbert, "as you proposed." "Humph! Have you the paper?" "Yes, sir." Here Mr. Grey showed signs of satisfaction, as Gilbert was quick-sighted enough to perceive. "We will go up stairs to my room," said his uncle, rising, and laying down the paper. "We shall be more private there." "Perhaps he thinks he can get hold of the paper better," thought our hero, though, of course, he kept his thought to himself. "Follow me," said Mr. Grey. "Give me the key to No. 157," he said, to the hotel clerk. Gilbert followed him up several flights of stairs till he reached his room. "Enter," he said, unlocking the door. Gilbert did so, feeling, at the same time, a queer sensation, as he thought of the attempt that might be made at violence. However, he was not wanting in courage, and did not deign to give audience to fear. "Sit down," said Mr. Grey, abruptly. Gilbert seated himself near the door. His uncle drew up a chair for himself, but, as our hero noted, placed it between him and the door. "He wants to cut me off from escape," he thought. "Never mind; he'll let me go when he finds he can't make anything by keeping me." "Well," said his uncle, when they were seated, "let me know all about this precious plot you have been hatching." "I am engaged in no plot, Mr. Grey," said Gilbert, steadily. "Of course not. Conspirators are the last to admit the real character of their designs. But that don't alter the fact. You have laid a plot for getting possession of my property, and, to this end, have forged a paper, which you think will help you." "You are quite mistaken, Mr. Grey. I have Jacob Morton's written confession of his agency in carrying me away from Cincinnati. I knew nothing of it till he spoke to me on this subject, and placed the paper in my hands." "Have you the paper with you?" Gilbert didn't answer this question, since he could not have said truly that he had Jacob's confession with him. It was merely his own copy. But he drew the paper from his breast-pocket, and handed it to his uncle.