we can meet again in
few days."

Having partaken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon
afterwards separated until another opportunity.

Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is already acquainted,
took but little part, as may have been perceived, in the discussion of
a project which so deeply affected his own interests. When it was first
discovered to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at
the bare probability of such an event. Subsequent reflection, however,
induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble, that could
not bear the touch of a finger without melting into air. It was true
he was naturally cunning, but then he was also naturally profligate and
vicious; and although not without intellect, yet was he deficient
in self-command to restrain himself when necessary. Altogether, his
character was bad, and scarcely presented to any one a favorable
aspect. When affected with liquor he was at once quarrelsome and
cowardly--always the first to provoke a fight, and the first, also, to
sneak out of it.

Soon after the disappearance of Sir Edward Gourlay's heir, the notion of
removing the baronet's own son occurred, not to his mother, nor to her
brother, but to old Corbet, who desired his son Charles, then a young
man, and the baronet's foster-brother, as a preparatory step to his
ultimate designs, to inform him that his illegitimate son was dead. Sir
Thomas at this time had not assumed the title, nor taken possession of
the immense estates.

"Mr. Gourlay," said Charles, "that child is dead; I was desired to tell
you so by my father, who doesn't wish to speak to you himself upon the
subject."

"Well," replied Mr. Gourlay, "what affair is that of mine?"

"Why," said the other, "as the unfortunate mother is insane, and
without means of providing decently for its burial, he thinks it only
reasonable that you should furnish money for that purpose--he, I know,
won't."

"What do you mean by providing decently?" asked Mr. Gourlay. "What stuff
that is!--throw the brat into a shell, and bury it. I am cursedly glad
it's gone. There's half-a-crown, and pitch it into the nearest kennel.
Why the deuce do you come to me with such a piece of information?"

Charles Corbet, being his father's son, looked at him, and we need
not at any length describe the nature of that look nor the feeling it
conveyed. This passed, but was not forgotten; and on being detailed by
Charles Corbet