an, with matted beard, wearing the coat of a
British Grenadier, but with all insignia of rank ripped from it. He had a
mean mouth, and yellow, fang-like teeth were displayed whenever he spoke.
Beyond this fellow, and only half seen from where I crouched, was a
heavy-set individual, his face almost purple, with a thatch of uncombed
red hair. He wore the cocked hat of a Dragoon, pushed to the back of his
head, his feet were encased in long cavalry boots, crossed on the table,
and he was pulling furiously at a pipe, the stem gripped firmly between
his teeth. Who the bearded man might be I had no means of knowing, but
this beauty was without doubt Fagin. I stared at him, fascinated,
recalling the stories of his fiendish cruelty, my heart thumping
violently, while my fingers gripped the butt of my pistol. Then, without
warning, a man stepped out of the darkened parlor, passed within three
feet of my hiding place, and stood within the dining-room door. The three
within looked at him, and Fagin roared out:

"What is it now? Heard from Culver?"

CHAPTER XXXIII

THEY SEND FOR CLAIRE

I could only see the fellow's back, with hair hanging low over the
collar, but his voice was clear.

"Got here five minutes ago. The preacher is locked in the parlor."

"By God! Good! Now we can play out the game, eh, Captain? Or," turning
about suspiciously, and staring at the other, who sat with eyes shaded by
one hand, "are you weakening as the time draws near?"

"Hell's fire! No! We gave her a choice, and she only laughed at it. I'll
go on now to spite the wench; only I think we should bring in the boy
first, and prove to her that we've actually got him."

Fagin emptied the glass in his hand, giving utterance to an oath as he
replaced it on the table.

"Yer as chicken-hearted drunk as sober, Grant," he said coarsely. "Did
yer hear the fool, Jones, an' after all I've told him?"

The bearded man nodded silently, his eyes shifting from one face to the
other. Fagin grinned, and poured out another drink.

"Now listen again," he went on, half angrily. "That boy's worth money ter
us--a thousand pounds,--but it wouldn't do yer any good ter be mixed up
in the affair, would it? What chance would yer have in this estate, or
fer yer commission either, if Howe or Clinton got an inklin' of yer game?
Good Lord, man! they'd hang yer instead of the other fellow. You'll have
ter lie some as it is, I reckon, ter explain why yer left Sir Henry,