"He will tell you himself that he considers prison the best place for
you. Blast you! but he--"
"But he, what?" inquired I, as the door opened and Mr. Blake with a
pale face and agitated mien entered the room.
The wretch did not answer. Rousing from the cowering position in which
they had both lain since their capture, the father and son struggled
up in some sort of measure to their feet, and with hot, anxious eyes
surveyed the countenance of the gentleman before them, as if they felt
their fate hung upon the expression of his pallid face. The son was
the first to speak.
"How do you do, brother-in-law," were his sullen and insulting words.
Mr. Blake shuddered and cast a look around.
"My wife?" murmured he.
"She is well," was the assurance given by Mr. Gryce, "and in a room
not far from this. I will send for her if you say so."
"No, not yet," came in a sort of gasp; "let me look at these wretches
first, and understand if I can what my wife has to suffer from her
connection with them."
"Your wife," broke in the father, "what's that to do with it; the
question is how do you like it and what will you do to get us clear
of this thing."
"I will do nothing," returned Mr. Blake. "You amply merit your doom
and you shall suffer it to the end for all time.
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