He to whom nature has drawn me all these years is my father—­Oh, papa, come to me; is it for you to stand aloof?  It is into your hands, with all the trust and love you have earned so well from your poor Grace, I give my love, my veneration, and my heart and soul forever.”  Then she flung herself panting on his bosom, and he cried over her.  The next moment he led her to the house, where he made her promise to repose now after this fresh trial; and, indeed, he would have followed her, but Bartley implored him so piteously, for the sake of old times, not to refuse him one word more, that he relented so far as to come out to him, though he felt it was a waste of time.

He said, “Mr. Bartley, it’s no use; nothing can undo this morning’s work:  our paths lie apart.  From something Walter Clifford let fall one day, I suspect he is the person you robbed, and induced me to rob, of a large fortune.”

“Well, what is he to you?  Have pity upon me; be silent, and name your own price.”

“Wrong Walter Clifford with my eyes open?  He is the last man in the world that I would wrong in money matters.  I have got a stern account against him, and I will begin it by speaking the truth and giving him back his own.”

Here the interview was interrupted by an honest miner, one Jim Perkins.  He came in hurriedly, and, like people of that class, thrust everybody else’s business out of his way.  “You are wanted at the mine, Mr. Hope.  The shoring of the old works is giving way, and there’s a deal of water collecting in another part.”

“I’ll come at once,” said Hope; “the men’s lives must not be endangered.  Have the cage ready.”  Jim walked away.

Hope turned to Bartley.

“Pray understand, Mr. Bartley, that this is my last visit to your mine.”

“One moment, Hope,” cried Bartley in despair; “we have been friends so long, surely you owe me something.”

“I do.”

“Well, then, I’ll make you rich for life if you will but let Mary return to me and only just be silent; speak neither for me nor against me; surely that is not much for an old friend to ask.  What is your answer?”

“That I will speak the truth, and keep my conscience and my child.”

This answer literally crushed Bartley.  His very knees knocked together; he leaned against the palings sick at heart.  He saw that Colonel Clifford would extort not only Walter’s legacy, but what the lawyers call the mesne profits, that is to say, the interest and the various proceeds from the fraud during fourteen years.

Whilst he was in this condition of bodily collapse and mental horror a cold, cynical voice dropped icicles, so to speak, into his ear.

“In a fix, governor, eh?  The girl won’t come back, and Hope won’t hold his tongue.”

Bartley looked round in amazement, and saw the cadaverous face and diabolical sneer of Leonard Monckton.  Fourteen years and evil passions had furrowed that bloodless cheek; but there was no mistaking the man.  It was a surprise to Bartley to see him there and be spoken to by a knave who had tried to rob him; but he was too full of his immediate trouble to think much of minor things.