James Cromwell did not reply to the merchant's speech. Not that he was so much appalled at the wickedness suggested, as that his nature, which was a timid one, shrank with timidity from undertaking so hazardous a crime. He hardly knew what to think or what to say. In fact, it was most politic for him to be silent, for, with such artfulness had Paul Morton conveyed the suggestion to the mind of his confederate, that he appeared only to be counselling prudence, and to be actuated by a kind desire to protect his boy-ward from possible danger. He had so guarded himself that he could at any time boldly deny having counselled violence, and turn upon his instrument with the unblushing assertion—"Thou canst not say I did it."

Paul Morton, seeing the sudden pallor of his companion, knew that his purpose had been accomplished, and went on to other matters.

"I think," he said, "that you will be able to start on the day after to-morrow. I will see that Robert is ready, and if you will come around by nine o'clock, there will be ample time to take the middle train."

"Very well," said Cromwell. "I will bear in mind what you say, Mr. Morton."

"And now, I think, Mr. Cromwell, I shall be obliged to leave you, as my business, which I have neglected of late, requires my attention."

James Cromwell took the hint, and left the house. He fell into a fit of musing, as he rode downtown on a street-car.

"Shall I do this thing which he wants of me?" he said to himself. "There would be danger in it, and there is something ugly in the thought of murder. Still, ten thousand dollars would set me up in life. Besides, I should still have a hold on Mr. Morton. Ah, it would be pleasant to be rich! No more miserable drudgery, no more cringing to an employer who cares no more for you than for a dog, and perhaps treats you no better! Money, money is a blessed thing. It brings independence; with it you can lift your head erect, and walk proudly among men, who are always ready to doff their hats to a man who is backed up by wealth. Yes, it is worth something to gain it, but then—murder!"

Here James Cromwell shuddered, and imprisonment, trial, conviction and the gallows, loomed up, an ugly and forbidding picture, before him. So weighed was his imagination with the terrors of the scene which he had conjured up before him, that when he was aroused from his musings by a slap on the shoulder, he started, and turned a terror-stricken countenance to the face that bent over him. He fancied for a moment that the terrible tragedy had been accomplished, and that the touch was that of a policeman who had been sent to arrest him.

"Why, Cromwell, what's the matter?" asked the other, in wonder. "You look as pale and scared as a ghost."

"Is it you, Hodgson?" said Cromwell, with an air of relief.

"Who did you think it was? You didn't think a policeman was after you, did you?" said Hodgson, jocosely.

"Oh, dear, no!" said Cromwell, laughing faintly. "I am not afraid of anything from that quarter. But the fact is, I have been getting nervous lately, and I think my health is affected."

"Why are you not in the shop? Got a furlough?"

"Yes, a permanent one. I resigned my situation on account of my health."

"Indeed! I don't see but you look about as usual—that is, now, though a minute ago, you looked pale enough."

"You can't always judge by appearances," said James Cromwell, shaking his head.

"Well, what are your plans? You haven't retired on a fortune, have you?"

"Not exactly. Still I am not wholly without resources. I think of going out West."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I think the change may benefit my health."

"Well, I hope it will. I don't know but I shall go myself, if I can find an opening. If you find anything you think will suit me, I wish you would let me know."

"All right. I will bear you in mind."

"Good-bye. I get out here. Good luck to you!"

The young man, who was salesman in a shoe-store, got out of the car, and James Cromwell rode on to his destination.

When he reached the small room which he had been compelled to call home, because he could afford nothing better, he looked with disdain on its scanty and shabby furniture, and said to himself:

"Thank Heaven, I shall not long be compelled to live in such a hole! That reminds me that I must give warning to my landlady."

He went down, encountering a careworn and shabbily-attired woman on the stairs.

"I was just looking for you, Mrs. Warren," he said. "I am intending to leave you this week."

"Indeed!" said the landlady. "I hope you are not dissatisfied, Mr. Cromwell?"

"No; that is not my reason for going. I am going to leave the city."

"Indeed, sir! have you left your place?" asked the woman, in surprise.

"Yes, I have been obliged to on account of my health."

"I am sorry to hear it, sir. What is the matter with you?"

"I expect it is the confinement."

"I am sorry to lose you, sir. I find it hard to keep my rooms full. If you know of any of your friends who would like a room, I hope you will send them to me."

"I will, certainly."

"When were you expecting to leave, Mr. Cromwell?"

"Day after to-morrow, but I will pay you up to the end of the week."

"Thank you, sir."

The landlady went away sighing at the loss of one who represented to her so many dollars a month, and James Cromwell went up again to his little room. He sat down on the bed, and indulged himself in pleasant thoughts.

"What a change has come over my prospects!" he said, complacently. "Three weeks ago I was a poor clerk on a miserable salary of ten dollars a week. Now, fortune has opened her doors, and there is a prospect of my acquiring an independence, and that without much trouble. It was a lucky day when Paul Morton came into our shop. It is well that my employer was not there, or I should have been unable to act with the promptness which has bettered my fortunes so materially. It isn't every one who would have improved so shrewdly such a chance. I must say that, at least, to the credit of my shrewdness. Would Paul Morton even have thought of intrusting his ward to me, if I had not let him know that I had a hold upon him, and meant to make use of it? In that hold lies a pile of money, and I mean to squeeze it out of him. I don't think he will deal unfairly by me. He must know that it would not be safe."

Money was the god of James Cromwell's idolatry. He had been in early life a poor orphan, reared in a poorhouse, kicked and cuffed by older boys, who sneered at him on account of his poverty. Later, he was apprenticed to a druggist, and served a hard apprenticeship, poorly fed and clothed. When he reached manhood, he came to New York to try his fortune, but his unpromising personal appearance stood in the way of his obtaining a desirable situation. At last, when he was reduced to his last dollar, he obtained a situation as assistant in the small store on the Bowery, where we found him at the commencement of the story, on a salary of six dollars a week. He had remained there for several years, and still his compensation had only reached the low figure of ten dollars a week.

He had pined for riches, and dreamed what he should do if he ever could amass a moderate sum of money, but three weeks since, it seemed very improbable whether he would ever be able to compass what he so feverishly longed for.

Thus all the circumstances of his past life had prepared him to become the pliant tool of Paul Morton's schemes. In his case, as in so many others, the love of money was likely to become the root of all evil.

So, with weak and vacillating timidity, drawn on by the lust for gold, James Cromwell thought over the proposal which had been made to him, weighing the risk against the gain proffered, and the more he thought, the stronger grew the power of the temptation, and the greater became the peril which menaced the life of Robert Raymond.