“I have,” said Bartley.

“Well, that’s clever of you to throw dust in their eyes, and put our little game off your own shoulders.  You want to save appearances?  You know you can not save William Hope.”

“I can save him, and I will save him.  God will have mercy on a penitent assassin, as he once had upon a penitent thief.”

Monckton stared at him and smiled.

“Who has been talking to you—­the parson?”

“My own conscience.  I abhor myself as much as I do you, you black villain.”

“Ah!” said Monckton, with a wicked glance, “that’s how a man patters before he splits upon his pals, to save his own skin.  Now, look here, old man, before you split on me ask yourself who had the greatest interest in this job.  You silenced a dangerous enemy, but what have I gained? you ought to square with me first, as you promised.  If you split upon me before that, you will put yourself in the hole and leave me out of it.”

“Villain and fool!” said Bartley, “these trifles do not trouble me now.  If Hope and my dear Mary are found dead in that mine, I’ll tell how they came by their death, and I’ll die by my own hand.”

Monckton said nothing, but looked at him keenly, and began at last to feel uneasy.

“A shaft is but a narrow thing,” Bartley rejoined; “why should they be buried alive? let’s get to them before they are starved to death.  We may save them yet.”

“Why, you fool, they’ll denounce us!”

“What do I care?  I would save them both to-night if I was to stand in the dock to-morrow.”

“And swing on the gallows next week, or end your days in a prison.”

“I’d take my chance,” said Bartley, desperately.  “I’ll undo my crime if I can.  No punishment can equal the agony I am in now, thanks to you, you villain.”

Then turning on him suddenly, and showing him the white of his eyes like a maniac, or a dangerous mastiff, he hissed out, “You think nothing of the lives of better men; perhaps you don’t value your own?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Monckton.  “That’s a very different thing.”

“Oh, you do value your own foul life?”

“At any amount of money,” said Monckton.

“Then why do you risk it?”

“Excuse me, governor, that’s a thing I make a point of not doing.  I risk my instruments, not my head, Ben Burnley to wit.”

“You are risking it now,” said Bartley, looking still more strangely at him.

“How so, pray?” said Monckton, getting a little uneasy, for this was not the Bartley he had known till then.

Bartley took the poker in his hand and proceeded to poke the fire; but somehow he did not look at the fire.  He looked askant at Monckton, and he showed the white of his eyes more and more.  Monckton kept his eye upon him and put his hand upon the handle of the door.