“No, no,” groaned Bartley, trembling in every limb, “it’s a horrible crime; I dare not risk it.”

“It is but a risk.  The alternative is certain.  You will be indicted for fraud by the Cliffords.”

Bartley groaned.

“They’ll live in your home, they’ll revel in your money, while you wear a cropped head—­and a convict dress—­in a stone cell at Portland.”

“No, never!” screamed Bartley.  “Man, man; you are tempting me to my perdition!”

“I am saving you.  Just consider—­where is the risk?  It is only an accident, and who will suspect you?  Men don’t ruin their own mines.  Here, just let me call him.”

Bartley made a faint gesture to forbid it, but Monckton pretended to take that as an assent.

“Hy, Ben,” he cried, “come here.”

“No, no,” cried Bartley, “I’ll have nothing to do with him.”

“Well,” said Monckton, “then don’t, but hear what he has got to say; he’ll tell you how easily accidents happen in a mine.”

Then Burnley came in, but stood at some distance.  Bartley turned his back upon them both, and edged away from them a little; but Monckton stood between the two men, determined to bring them together.

“Ben,” said he, “Mr. Bartley takes you on again at my request, no thanks to Mr. Hope.”

“No, curse him; I know that.”

“Talking of that, Ben, how was it that you got rid of that troublesome overseer in the Welsh colliery?”

Ben started, and looked aghast for a moment, but soon recovered himself and told his tale of blood with a strange mixture of satisfaction and awe, washing his hands in the air nervously all the time.

“Well, you see, sir, we put some gun-cotton in a small canister, with a fuse cut to last fowr minutes, and hid it in one of the old workings the men had left; then they telt t’ overseer they thowt t’ water was coming in by quickly.  He got there just in time; and what with t’ explosion, fire-damp, and fallen coal, we never saw t’ over-seer again.”

“Dear me,” said Monckton, “and Mr. Hope has gone down the mine expressly to inspect old workings.  Is it not a strange coincidence?  Now if such an accident was to befall Mr. Hope, it’s my belief Mr. Bartley would give you five hundred pounds.”

Bartley made no reply, the perspiration was pouring down his face, and he looked a picture of abject guilt and terror.

Monckton looked at him, and decided for him.  He went softly, like a cat, to Ben Burnley and said, “If an accident does occur, and that man never comes up again, you are to have five hundred pounds.”

“Five hundred pounds!” shouted Ben.  “I do t’ job.  Nay, nay, but,” said he, and his countenance fell, “they will not let me go down the mine.”

The diabolical agent went cat-like to Bartley.

“Please give me a written order to let this man go to work again in the mine.”

Bartley trembled and hesitated, but at last took out his pocket-book and wrote on a leaf,