Mr. Belcher drew the cork, and poured out a tumblerful of the choice old liquid.  Its fragrance filled the little room.  It reached the nostrils of the poor slave, who shivered as if an ague had smitten him.  He hesitated, advanced toward the table, retreated, looked at Mr. Belcher, then at the brandy, then walked the room, then paused before Mr. Belcher, who had coolly watched the struggle from his chair.  The victim of this passion was in the supreme of torment.  His old thirst was roused to fury.  The good resolutions of the preceding weeks, the moral strength he had won, the motives that had come to life within him, the promise of a better future, sank away into blank nothingness.  A patch of fire burned on either cheek.  His eyes were bloodshot.

“Oh God!  Oh God!” he exclaimed, and buried his face in his hands.

“Fudge!” said Mr. Belcher.  “What do you make an ass of yourself for?”

“If you’ll take these things out of the room, and see that I drink nothing to-night, I’ll do anything.  They are hell and damnation to me.  Don’t you see?  Have you no pity on me?  Take them away!”

Mr. Belcher was surprised, but he had secured the promise he was after, and so he coolly rose and removed the offensive temptation.

Yates sat down as limp as if he had had a sunstroke.  After sitting a long time in silence, he looked up, and begged for the privilege of sleeping in the house.  He did not dare to trust himself in the street until sleep had calmed and strengthened him.

There was a lounge in the room, and, calling a servant, Mr. Belcher ordered blankets to be brought down.  “You can sleep here to-night, and I will see you in the morning,” said he, rising, and leaving him without even the common courtesy of a “good-night.”

Poor Sam Yates had a very bad night indeed.  He was humiliated by the proof of his weakness, and maddened by the outrage which had been attempted upon him and his good resolutions.  In the morning, he met Mr. Belcher, feeble and unrefreshed, and with seeming acquiescence received his directions for future work.

“I want you to take the road from here to Sevenoaks, stopping at every town on the way.  You can be sure of this:  he is not near Sevenoaks.  The whole county, and in fact the adjoining counties, were all ransacked to find him.  He cannot have found asylum there; so he must be either between here and Sevenoaks, or must have gone into the woods beyond.  There’s a trapper there, one Jim Fenton.  He may have come across him in the woods, alive or dead, and I want you to go to his camp and find out whether he knows anything.  My impression is that he knew Benedict well, and that Benedict used to hunt with him.  When you come back to me, after a faithful search, with the report that you can find nothing of him, or with the report of his death, we shall be ready for decisive operations.  Write me when you have anything to write, and if you find it necessary to spend money to secure any very desirable end, spend it.”