“Then—­why?” asked Mr. Ambrose, hesitating.

“My poor husband was a very jealous man,” she answered.  “I accidentally told him that the cottage belonged to Mr. Juxon and yesterday—­do you remember?  You walked on with Mr. Juxon beyond the turning, and then he came back to see me—­to tell me of my husband’s escape.  Walter saw that and—­and he thought, I suppose—­that Mr. Juxon did not want you to see him coming here.”

“But Mr. Juxon had just promised me to go and see you,” said the honest vicar.

“Yes,” said poor Mrs. Goddard, beginning to sob again, “but Walter—­my husband—­thinks that I—­I care for Mr. Juxon—­he is so jealous,” cried she, again covering her face with her hands.  The starting tears trickled through her fingers and fell upon her black dress.  She was ashamed, this time, for she hated even to speak of such a possibility.

“I understand,” answered Mr. Ambrose gravely.  It certainly did not strike him that it might be true, and his knowledge of such characters as Walter Goddard was got chiefly from the newspapers.  He had often noticed in reports of trials and detailed descriptions of crimes that criminals seem to become entirely irrational after a certain length of time, and it was one of the arguments he best understood for demonstrating that bad men either are originally, or ultimately become mad.  To men like the vicar, almost the only possible theory of crime is the theory of insanity.  It is positively impossible for a man who has passed thirty or forty years in a quiet country parish to comprehend the motives or the actions of great criminals.  He naturally says they must be crazy or they would not do such things.  If Goddard were crazy enough to commit a forgery, he was crazy enough for anything, even to the extent of suspecting that his wife loved the squire.

“I think,” said Mr. Ambrose, “that if you agree with me it will be best to warn Mr. Juxon of his danger.”

“Of course,” murmured Mrs. Goddard.  “You must warn him at once!”

“I will go to the Hall now,” said the vicar bravely.  “But—­I am very sorry to have to dwell on the subject, my dear lady, but, without wishing in the least to know where the—­your husband is, could you tell me anything about his appearance?  For instance, if you understand what I mean, supposing that Mr. Juxon knew how he looked and should happen to meet him, knowing that he wished to kill him—­he might perhaps avoid him, if you understand me?”

The vicar’s English was a little disturbed by his extreme desire not to hurt Mrs. Goddard’s feelings.  If the squire and his dog chanced to meet Walter Goddard they would probably not avoid him as the vicar expressed it; that was a point Mr. Ambrose was willing to leave to Mrs. Goddard’s imagination.

“Yes—­must you know?” she asked anxiously.

“We must know that,” returned the vicar.

“He is disguised as a poor tramp,” she said sorrowfully.  “He wears a smock-frock and an old hat I think.  He is pale—­oh, poor, poor Walter!” she cried again bursting into tears.