Fiction > Book editions > London, 1885 - Dynamiter

114 XEW ARABIAN NIGHTS.
what pallid face, stepped into the room and closed the
door again behind him. For some time, the two looked
upon each other in perfect silence ; then Mr. Jones moved
forward to the table, took a seat and, still without once
changing the direction of his eyes, addressed the young
man.
' You are right,' he said. ' It is for me the blood
money is oftered. And now what will you do 1 '
It was a question to which Somerset was far from
being al)le to reply. Taken as he was at unawares,
masquerading in the man's own coat, and surrounded by
a whole arsenal of diabolical explosives, the keeper of
the lodging-house was silenced.
' Yes,' resumed the other, ' I am he. I am that man,
whom with impotent hate and fear, they still hunt from
den to den, from disguise to disguise. Yes, my landlord,
you have it in your power, if you be poor, to lay the basis
of your fortune ; if you be unknown, to capture honour
at one snatch. You have hocussed an innocent widow ;
and I find you here in my apartment, for whose use I
pay you in stamped money, searching my wardrobe, and
your hand — shame, sir ! — your hand in my very pocket.
You can now complete the cycle of your ignominious
acts, by what will be at once the simplest, the safest and
the most remunerative.' The speaker paused as if to
emphasise his words ; and then, with a great change of
tone and manner, thus resumed : ' And yet, sir, when I
look upon your face, I feel certain that I cannot be
deceived : certain that in spite of all, I have the honour
and pleasure of speaking to a gentleman. Take off my
coat, sir — which but cumbers you. Divest yourself of
this confusion : that which is but thought upon, thank
God, need be no burthen to the conscience ; we have all
harboured guilty thoughts ; and if it flashed into your
mind to sell my flesh and blood, my anguish in the dock,
and the sweat of my death agony — it was a thought, dear
sir, you were as incapable of acting on, as I of any further
question of your honour.' At these words, the speaker,
with a very open, smiling countenance, like a forgiving
father, offered Somerset his hand.