place where the box was stuck in. I think he funks it. I almost wish
you hadn't done it, upon my honour--eh? Look there! what was that? That
looked like something.--I say! do you think we shall ever be found out?"

Master Ripton intoned this abrupt interrogation verb seriously.

"I don't think about it," said Richard, all his faculties bent on signs
from Lobourne.

"Well, but," Ripton persisted, "suppose we are found out?"

"If we are, I must pay for it."

Sir Austin breathed the better for this reply. He was beginning to
gather a clue to the dialogue. His son was engaged in a plot, and was,
moreover, the leader of the plot. He listened for further enlightenment.

"What was the fellow's name?" inquired Ripton.

His companion answered, "Tom Bakewell."

"I'll tell you what," continued Ripton. "You let it all clean out to
your cousin and uncle at supper.--How capital claret is with partridge-
pie! What a lot I ate!--Didn't you see me frown?"

The young sensualist was in an ecstasy of gratitude to his late
refection, and the slightest word recalled him to it. Richard answered
him:

"Yes; and felt your kick. It doesn't matter. Rady's safe, and uncle