She retired, and drove away to the Dun Cow, which was the place Monckton had appointed when he wrote upon the card.

“Colonel Clifford,” said Monckton, “all that is a woman’s way.  When she is out of sight of you, and thinks over her desertion and her unfortunate condition—­neither maid, wife, nor widow—­she will be angry with me if I don’t obtain her some compensation.”

“She deserves compensation,” said the Colonel, gravely.

“Especially if she holds her tongue,” said Monckton.

“Whether she holds her tongue or not,” said the Colonel.  “I don’t see how I can hold mine, and you have already told my daughter-in-law.  A separation between her and my son is inevitable.  The compensation must be offered, and God help me, I’m a magistrate, if only to compound the felony.”

“Surely,” said Monckton, “it can be put upon a wider footing than that; let me think,” and he turned away to the open window; but when he got there he saw a lot of miners clustering about.  Now he had no fear of their recognizing him, since he had not left a vestige of the printed description.  But the very sight of them, and the memory of what they had done to his dead accomplice, made him shudder at them.  Henceforth he kept away from the window, and turned his back to it.

“I think with you, sir,” said he, mellifluously, “that she ought to have a few thousands by way of compensation.  You know she could claim alimony, and be a very blister to you and yours.  But on the other hand I do think, as an impartial person, that she ought to keep this sad secret most faithfully, and even take her maiden name again.”

Whilst Monckton was making this impartial proposal Bartley opened the door, and was coming forward with his deed, when he heard a voice he recognized; and partly by that, partly by the fellow’s thin lips, he recognized him, and said, “Monckton!  That villain here!”

“Monckton,” said Colonel Clifford, “that is not his name.  It is Meredith.  He is a clergyman.”  Bartley examined him very suspiciously, and Monckton, during this examination, looked perfectly calm and innocent.  Meantime a note was brought to Colonel Clifford from Grace:  “Papa was the witness.  He is quite sure the bridegroom was not our Walter.  He thinks it must have been the other clerk, Leonard Monckton, who robbed Mr. Bartley, and put some of the money into dear Walter’s pockets to ruin him, but papa saved him.  Don’t let him escape.”

Colonel Clifford’s eye flashed with triumph, but he controlled himself.

“Say I will give it due attention,” said he; “I’m busy now.”

And the servant retired.

“Now, sir,” said he, “is this a case of mistaken identity, or is your name Leonard Monckton?”

“Colonel Clifford,” said the hypocrite, sadly, “I little thought that I should be made to suffer for the past, since I came here only on an errand of mercy.  Yes, sir, in my unregenerate days I was Leonard Monckton.  I disgraced the name.  But I repented, and when I adopted the sacred calling of a clergyman I parted with the past, name and all.  I was that man’s clerk; and so,” said he, spitefully, and forgetting his sing-song, “was your son Walter Clifford.  Was that not so, Mr. Bartley?”