In
a breast-pocket, however, inside his waistcoat, he found pinned to the
lining a note--a pound note--on the back of which was jotted a brief
memorandum of the day on which it was written, and the person from
whom he had received it. To this was added a second memorandum, in the
following words: "Mem. This note may yet be useful to myself if I could
get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name--Thomas
Skipton--is written here upon it. He is the man I want, for I know his
signature."
No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several
names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently
by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes
gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous
triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through
such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express.
"Unhappy wretch," thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, "it
is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living
over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither
of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak.
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