At early morn on the next day, Jasper Lamotte and his son, Frank, were seated together in the dining-room of Mapleton.
Jasper Lamotte was hurriedly eating a bountiful and appetizing lunch, and washing it down with plenty of light claret; and Frank was seated near the table, smoking a strong segar, and giving an attentive ear to the words of his sire.
“This is the first time that we have got the lead on Burrill,” said the elder Lamotte, “and in some way it must be made to count. Drunk or sober, heretofore, he has looked after his interests too closely to serve ours.”
“The devil’s got into Burrill,” replied Frank, bending forward to knock the ashes from his black segar; “and into the rest of the family too, I should say; Evan has been bad enough any time within the memory of man, but look
