“I did, and I do.”

A gleam of his former character returned to his eye, as, gathering up his lips again, ’he said, “I could soon show you to the contrary.”

“Yes; but you will not do so.  I see clearly that you are infatuated.  It appears to me that there is an evil fate hanging over you, like some hungry raven, following and watching the motions of a sick old horse that is reduced to skin and bone.  You’re doomed, I think.”

“Well, now,” replied Anthony, the corners of whose mouth dropped again at this startling and not inappropriate comparison, “to show how much you are mistaken, let me ask how your business with Lord Cullamore gets on?  I believe there’s a screw loose there?—­eh?  I mean on your side—­eh?”

It wasn’t in his nature to restrain the sinister expression which a consciousness of his advantage over the stranger caused him to feel in his turn.  The grin, besides, which he gave him, after he had thrown out these hints, had something of reprisal in it; and, to tell the truth, the stranger’s face now became as blank and lugubrious as Anthony’s had been before.

“If I don’t mistake,” he continued—­for the other was too much astonished to reply, “if I don’t mistake, there’s a couple o’ bits of paper that would stand your friend, if you could lay your claws upon them.”

“Whether they could, or could not, is no affair of yours, my good sir,” replied the stranger, rising and getting his hat; “and whether I have changed my mind on the subject you hint at is a matter known only to myself.  I wish you good-day.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony, probably satisfied with the fact of his having turned the tables and had his revenge on the stranger; “I beg your pardon, sir.  Let us part friends, at all events.  Set in case now—­”

“I will listen to none of those half sentences.  You cannot possibly speak out, I see; in fact, you are tongue-tied by the cord of your evil fate.  Upon no subject can you speak until it is too late.”

“God direct me now!” exclaimed Corbet to himself.  “I think the time is come; for, unless I relieve my conscience before I’m called—­James he tould me the other night—­Well, sir,” he proceeded, “listen.  If I befriend you, will you promise to stand my friend, if I should get into any difficulty?”

“I will enter into no compromise of the kind with you,” said the other.  “If you are about to do an act of justice, you ought to do it without conditions; and if you possess any document that is of value to another, and of none to yourself, and yet will not restore it to the proper owner, you are grossly dishonest, and capable of all that will soon, I trust, be established against you and your employers.  Good-by, Mr. Corbet.”

“Aisy, sir, aisy,” said the tenacious and vacillating old knave.  “Aisy, I say.  You will be generous, at any rate; for you know their value.  How much will you give me for the papers I spake of—­that is, in case I could get them for you?”