That seemed, however, a doubtful good, and perhaps there was some personal dread of the vampyre mixed up with the rejection of this proposition.  But reject it he did, and then he walked moodily into the own without any fixed resolution of what he should do.

All that he thought of was a general idea that he should like to create some mischief, if possible—­what it was he cared not, so long as it made a disturbance.

Now, he knew well that the most troublesome and fidgetty man in the town was Tobias Philpots, a saddler, who was always full of everybody’s business but his own, and ever ready to hear any scandal of his neighbours.

“I have a good mind,” said the boy, “to go to old Philpots, and tell him all about it, that I have.”

The good mind soon strengthened itself into a fixed resolution, and full of disdain and indignation at the supposed want of faith of the Hungarian nobleman, he paused opposite the saddler’s door.

Could he but for a moment have suspected the real reason why the appointment had not been kept with him, all his curiosity would have been doubly aroused, and he would have followed the landlord of the inn and his associate upon the track of the second vampyre that had visited the town.

But of this he knew nothing, for that proceeding had been conducted with amazing quietness; and the fact of the Hungarian nobleman, when he found that he was followed, taking a contrary course to that in which Varney was concealed, prevented the boy from knowing anything of his movements.

Hence the thing looked to him like a piece of sheer neglect and contemptuous indifference, which he felt bound to resent.

He did not pause long at the door of the saddler’s, but, after a few moments, he walked boldly in, and said,—­

“Master Philpots, I have got something extraordinary to tell you, and you may give me what you like for telling you.”

“Go on, then,” said the saddler, “that’s just the price I always likes to pay for everything.”

“Will you keep it secret?” said the boy.

“Of course I will.  When did you ever hear of me telling anything to a single individual?”

“Never to a single individual, but I have heard you tell things to the whole town.”

“Confound your impudence.  Get out of my shop directly.”

“Oh! very good.  I can go and tell old Mitchell, the pork-butcher.”

“No, I say—­stop; don’t tell him.  If anybody is to know, let it be me, and I’ll promise you I’ll keep it secret.”

“Very good,” said the boy, returning, “you shall know it; and, mind, you have promised me to keep it secret, so that if it gets known, you know it cannot be any fault of mine.”

The fact was, the boy was anxious it should be known, only that in case some consequences might arise, he thought he would quiet his own conscience, by getting a promise of secrecy from Tobias Philpots, which he well knew that individual would not think of keeping.