“And have you succeeded,” said Henry, “in your object now?”

“No; the treasure has yet to be found.  Mortimore, the hangman, followed me into the house, guessing my intention, and indulging a hope that he would succeed in sharing with me its proceeds.  But he, as well as myself, was foiled, and nothing came of the toilsome and anxious search but disappointment and bitterness.”

“Then it is supposed that the money is still concealed?”

“I hope so; I hope, as well, that it will be discovered by you and yours; for surely none can have a better right to it than you, who have suffered so much on its account.”

“And yet,” remarked Henry, “I cannot help thinking it is too securely hidden from us.  The picture has been repeatedly removed from its place, and produced no results; so that I fear we have little to expect from any further or more protracted research.”

“I think,” said Varney, “that you have everything to expect.  The words of the dying Marmaduke Bannerworth, you may depend, were not spoken in vain; and I have every reason to believe that, sooner or later, you must, without question, become the possessors of that sum.”

“But ought we rightly to hold it?”

“Who ought more rightly to hold it?” said Varney; “answer me that.”

“That’s a sensible enough idea of your’s,” said the admiral; “and if you were twice over a vampyre, I would tell you so.  It’s a very sensible idea; I should like to know who has more right to it than those who have had such a world of trouble about it.”

“Well, well,” said Henry, “we must not dispute, as yet, about a sum of money that may really never come to hand.  For my own part, I have little to hope for in the matter; but, certainly, nothing shall be spared, on my part, to effect such a thorough search of the Hall as shall certainly bring it to light, if it be in existence.”

“I presume, Sir Francis Varney,” said Charles Holland, “that you have now completed your narrative?”

“I have.  After events are well known to you.  And, now, I have but to lie down and die, with the hope of finding that rest and consolation in the tomb which has been denied me hitherto in this world.  My life has been a stormy one, and full of the results of angry passions.  I do hope now, that, for the short time I have to live, I shall know something like serenity, and die in peace.”

“You may depend, Varney, that, as long as you have an asylum with us,” said the admiral—­“and that you may have as long as you like,—­you may be at peace.  I consider that you have surrendered at discretion, and, under such circumstances, an enemy always deserves honourable treatment, and always gets it on board such a ship as this.”

“There you go again,” said Jack, “calling the house a ship.”

“What’s that to you, if I were to call it a bowsprit?  Ain’t I your captain, you lubber, and so, sure to be right, while you are wrong, in the natural order of things?  But you go and lay down, Master Varney, and rest yourself, for you seem completely done up.”