“The vicar and his wife and Mr. Juxon at the Hall.”

“Mr. Juxon?  What is he like?  Would he give me up if he knew?”

“I think he would,” said Mary Goddard, thoughtfully.  “I am almost sure he would.  He is the justice of the peace here—­he would be bound to.”

“Do you know him?” Goddard thought he detected a slight nervousness in his wife’s manner.

“Very well.  This house belongs to him.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the convict.  “I begin to see.”

“Yes—­you see you had better go,” said his wife innocently.  “How can you manage to come here tomorrow?  You cannot go on without the money—­”

“No—­and I don’t mean to,” he answered roughly.  Money was indeed an absolute necessity to him.  “Give me what you have got in the house, anyhow.  You may think better of it to-morrow.  I don’t trust people of your stamp.”

Mary Goddard rose without a word and left the room.  When she was gone the convict set himself to finish the jug of ale she had brought, and looked about him.  He saw objects that reminded him of his former home.  He examined the fork with which he had eaten and remembered the pattern and the engraved initials as he turned it over in his hand.  The very table itself had belonged to his house—­the carpet beneath his feet, the chair upon which he sat.  It all seemed too unnatural to be true.  That very night, that very hour, he must go forth again into the wild February weather and hide himself, leaving all these things behind him; leaving behind too his wife, the woman he had so bitterly injured, but who was still his wife.  It seemed impossible.  Surely he might stay if he pleased; it was not true that detectives were on his track—­it was all a dream, since that dreadful day when he had written that name, which was not his, upon a piece of paper.  He had waked up and was again at home.  But he started as he heard a footstep in the passage, being now accustomed to start at sounds which suggested pursuit; he started and he felt the wet smock-frock, which was his disguise, clinging to him as he moved, and the reality of the present returned to him with awful force.  His wife again entered the room.

“There are over nine pounds,” she said.  “It is all I have.”  She laid the money upon the table before him and remained standing.  “You shall have the rest to-morrow,” she added.

“Can’t I see Nellie?” he asked suddenly.  It was the first time he had spoken of his child.  Mrs. Goddard hesitated.

“No,” she said at last.  “You cannot see her now.  She must not be told; she thinks you are dead.  You may catch a glimpse of her to-morrow—­”

“Well—­it is better she should not know, I suppose.  You could not explain.”

“No, Walter, I could not—­explain.  Come later to-morrow night—­to the same window.  I will undo the shutters and give you the money.”  Mary Goddard was almost overcome with exhaustion.  It was a terrible struggle to maintain her composure under such circumstances; but necessity does wonders.  “Where will you sleep to-night?” she asked presently.  She pitied the wretch from her heart, though she longed to see him leave her house.