Mr. Juxon felt that it was impossible to foresee what Walter Goddard might say in the course of another hour.  He had often seen people in a delirium and knew how strangely that inarticulate murmuring sometimes breaks off into sudden incisive speech, astonishing every one who hears.  The man had already betrayed that he knew Mary Goddard; at the next interval in his ravings he might betray that she was his wife.  John was still standing by the bedside, not having recovered from his astonishment; if John heard any more, he would be in possession of Mrs. Goddard’s secret.  The squire was an energetic man, equal to most emergencies; he suddenly made up his mind.

“Mr. Short,” he said, “I will tell you something.  You will see the propriety of being very discreet, in fact it is only to ensure your discretion that I wish to tell you this much.  I have reason to believe that this fellow is a convict—­do not be surprised—­escaped from prison.  He is a man who once—­was in love with Mrs. Goddard, which accounts for his having found his way to Billingsfield.  Yes—­I know what you are going to say—­Mrs. Goddard is aware of his presence, and that accounts for her excitement and her fainting.  Do you understand?”

“But—­good heavens!” exclaimed John in amazement.  “Why did she not give information, if she knew he was in the neighbourhood?”

“That would be more than could be expected of any woman, Mr. Short.  You forget that the man once loved her.”

“And how did you—­well, no.  I won’t ask any questions.”

“No,” said the squire, “please don’t.  You would be placing me in a disagreeable position.  Not that I do not trust you implicitly, Mr. Short,” he added frankly, “but I should be betraying a confidence.  If this fellow dies here, he will be buried as an unknown tramp.  I found no trace of a name upon his clothes.  If he recovers, we will decide what course to pursue.  We will do our best for him—­it is a delicate case of conscience.  Possibly the poor fellow would very much prefer being allowed to die; but we cannot let him.  Humanity, for some unexplained reason, forbids euthanasia and the use of the hemlock in such cases.”

“Was he sentenced for a long time?” asked John, very much impressed by the gravity of the situation.

“Twelve years originally, I believe.  Aggravated by his escape and by his assault on me, his term might very likely be extended to twenty years if he were taken again.”

“That is to say, if he recovers?” inquired John.

“Precisely.  I do not think I would hesitate to send him back to prison if he recovered.”

“I do not wonder you think he would rather die here, if he were consulted,” said John.  “It would not be murder to let him die peacefully—­”

“In the opinion of the law it might be called manslaughter, though I do not suppose anything would be said if I had simply placed him here and omitted to call in a physician.  He cannot live very long in this state, unless something is done for him immediately.  Look at him.”