“But, Richard, do you know that West Lynne is the very worst place you could have flown to?  It has come to light that you were here before, disguised as a farm laborer.”

“Who the deuce betrayed that?” interrupted Richard.

“I am unable to tell; I cannot even imagine.  The rumor was rife in the place, and it reached your father’s ear.  The rumor may make people’s wits sharper to know you in your disguise, than they otherwise might have been.”

“But what was I to do?  I was forced to come here first and get a little money.  I shall fix myself in some other big town, far away from London—­Liverpool or Manchester, perhaps; and see what employment I can get into, but I must have something to live upon till I can get it.  I don’t possess a penny piece,” he added, drawing out his trousers pockets for the inspection of Mr. Carlyle.  “The last coppers, I had, three pence, I spent in bread and cheese and half a pint of beer at midday.  I have been outside that window for more than an hour, sir.”

“Indeed!”

“And as I neared West Lynne I began to think what I should do.  It was no use in me trying to catch Barbara’s attention such a night as this; I had no money to pay for a lodging; so I turned off here, hoping I might, by good luck, drop upon you.  There was a little partition in the window curtain—­it had not been drawn close—­and through it I could see you and Miss Carlyle.  I saw her leave the room; I saw you come to the window and open it, and then I spoke.  Mr. Carlyle,” he added, after a pause, “is this life to go on with me forever?”

“I am deeply sorry for you, Richard,” was the sympathizing answer.  “I wish I could remedy it.”

Before another word was spoken the room door was tried, and then gently knocked at.  Mr. Carlyle placed his hand on Richard, who was looking scared out of his wits.

“Be still; be at ease, Richard; no one shall come in.  It is only Peter.”

Not Peter’s voice, however, but Joyce’s was heard, in response to Mr. Carlyle’s demand of who was there.

“Miss Carlyle has left her handkerchief downstairs, sir, and has sent me for it.”

“You cannot come in—­I am busy,” was the answer, delivered in a clear and most decisive tone.

“Who was it?” quivered Richard, as Joyce was heard going away.

“It was Joyce.”

“What!  Is she here still?  Has anything ever been heard of Afy, sir?”

“Afy was here herself two or three months ago.”

“Was she, though?” uttered Richard, beguiled for an instant from the thought of his own danger.  “What is she doing?”

“She is in service as a lady’s maid.  Richard, I questioned Afy about Thorn.  She protested solemnly to me that it was not Thorn who committed the deed—­that it could not have been he, for Thorn was with her at the moment of its being done.”

“It’s not true!” fired Richard.  “It was Thorn.”