“It is Mr. Juxon,” she almost whispered.  If she had been watching the vicar she would have noticed the strange air of perplexity which came over his face when he heard the squire’s name.

“Yes—­Mr. Juxon,” she moaned.  Then the choked-down horror rose in her throat.  “Walter means to murder him!” she almost screamed.  “Oh, my God, my God, what shall I do!” she cried aloud clasping her hands suddenly over her face and rocking herself to and fro.

The vicar was horror-struck; he could hardly believe his ears, and believing them his senses swam.  In his wildest dreams—­and the good man’s dreams were rarely wild—­he had never thought that such things could come near him.  Being a very good man and, moreover, a wise man when he had plenty of time for reflection, he folded his hands quietly and bent his head, praying fervently for the poor tortured woman who moaned and tossed herself beside him.  It was a terrible moment.  Suddenly she controlled herself and grasping one of the arms of the chair looked round at her silent companion.

“You must save him,” she said in agonised tones, “you must save them both!  Do not tell me you cannot—­oh, do not tell me that!”

It was a passionate and heart-broken appeal, such a one as few men would or could resist, coming as it did from a helpless and miserably unhappy woman.  Whether the vicar was wise in giving the answer he did, it would be hard to say:  but he was a man who honestly tried to do his best.

“I will try, my dear lady,” he said, making a great resolution.  Mrs. Goddard took his hand and pressed it in both of hers, and the long restrained tears flowed fast and softly over her worn cheeks.  For some moments neither spoke.

“If you cannot save both—­you must save—­Mr. Juxon,” she said at last, breathing the words rather than speaking them.

The vicar knew or guessed what it must cost her to hint that her husband might be captured.  He recognised that the only way in which he could contribute towards the escape of the convict was by not revealing his hiding-place, and he accordingly refrained from asking where he was concealed.  He shuddered as he thought that Goddard might be lying hidden in the cottage itself, for all he could tell, but he was quite sure that he ought not to know it.  So long as he did not know where the forger was, it was easy to hold his peace; but if once he knew, the vicar was not capable of denying the knowledge.  He had never told a lie in his life.

“I will try,” he repeated; and growing calmer, he added, “You are quite sure this was not an empty threat, my dear friend?  Was there any reason—­a—­I mean to say, had this unfortunate man ever known Mr. Juxon?”

“Oh no!” answered Mrs. Goddard, sinking back into her chair.  “He never knew him.”  Her tears were still flowing but she no longer sobbed aloud; it had been a relief to her overwrought and sensitive temperament to give way to the fit of weeping.  She actually felt better, though ten minutes earlier she would not have believed it possible.