Just before he reached the bridge, he overtook the tall, dark figure of a man, clothed in a long, close overcoat, in shape not unlike a priest’s walking habit.  The man tottered and stumbled as he walked, so that the duke was soon abreast to him.  And then he discovered the wanderer to be John Potts, valet to the late Sir Lemuel Levison.

The young Duke of Hereward shrunk from this man.  He could not bring himself to speak with one whom he could not, in his own mind, clear from suspicion.

He passed the valet, walking quickly, and gaining the bridge.

Then he heard footsteps rapidly following him, and the voice of the ex-valet excitedly calling after him: 

“My Lord Arondelle! oh!  I beg pardon!  Your grace!  Your grace!  For the love of Heaven, let me speak to you!”

Thus adjured, the Duke of Hereward paused, and permitted the ex-valet to come up beside him.

The wretched man was out of breath, pale, panting, trembling, ready to faint.  He tottered toward the bulwarks of the bridge, grasped them, and leaned on them for support.

“What do you want of me, Potts?” inquired the duke.

“Oh, your grace! only to speak to you!” gasped the man.

“What can you have to say to me?” sternly demanded the duke.

“This, your grace!” said the man, suddenly springing forward and falling on his knees at the feet of the duke. “This I have to say, your grace!  Although the Court has not cleared me, I am innocent of my master’s blood!  I am!  I am!  I am! as the Heaven above us hears and knows!  Oh! say you believe me, my lord duke!” cried the poor wretch, wringing his hands.

“Your words and manner are very impressive; nevertheless, I cannot place confidence in them,” said the duke, coldly.

“Oh, my lord! my lord!  Oh, my lord! my lord!” groaned the valet, lifting both his hands to heaven, as if in appeal from a great injustice.

The duke was moved.

“If you are guiltless, why should you care whether I, or any other fallible mortal, should consider you guilty?” he inquired.

“Oh,” cried the man, clasping his hands with the energy of despair—­“because every body thinks me guilty! No one believes me innocent, though I am guiltless of my master’s blood, so help me Heaven!”

“The circumstances, though not enough to convict you in a court of law, where every doubt must go in favor of the accused, were still strong enough to lay you under suspicion, and open to a second arrest and trial for your life, should new evidence turn up,” quietly replied the duke.

“I know it!  I know it, your grace.  But no new evidence against me can turn up!  Lord grant that evidence in my favor might do so!  But that cannot happen either.  The circumstances that accused, but could not convict, nor acquit me, leave me still under the ban!  Yes! under the ban I must remain!  But do not you, my lord duke, believe me guilty of my master’s death!  Guilty of much I am!  Guilty of neglect of duty, but not of my master’s death!  The Heavens that hear me know it!  Oh, pray, pray try to believe it, my lord duke!” pleaded the wretch, still kneeling, still lifting his clasped hands in an agony of appeal.