Nevertheless, between you and us, this sleek, rosy personage, archdeacon or rural dean down to the ground was Leonard Monckton, padded to the nine, and tinted as artistically as any canvas in the world.

* * * * *

The first visit Monckton had paid to this neighborhood was to the mine.  He knew that was a dangerous visit, so he came at night as a decrepit old man.  He very soon saw two things which discouraged farther visits.  One was a placard describing his crime in a few words, and also his person and clothes, and offering 500 guineas reward.  As his pallor was specified, he retired for a minute behind a tent, and emerged the color of mahogany; he then pursued his observations, and in due course fell in with the second warning.  This was the body of a man lying upon the slack at the pit mouth; the slack not having been added to for many days was glowing very hot, and fired the night.  The body he recognized immediately, for the white face stared at him; it was Ben Burnley undergoing cremation.  To this the vindictive miners had condemned him; they had sat on his body and passed a resolution, and sworn he should not have Christian burial, so they managed to hide his corpse till the slack got low, and then they brought him up at night and chucked him like a dog on to the smouldering coal; one-half of him was charred away when Monckton found him, but his face was yet untouched.  Two sturdy miners walked to and fro as sentinels, armed with hammers, and firmly resolved that neither law nor gospel should interfere with this horrible example.

Even Monckton, the man of iron nerves, started back with a cry of dismay at the sight and the smell.

One of the miners broke into a hoarse, uneasy laugh.  “Yow needn’t to skirl, old man.” he cried.  “Yon’s not a man; he’s nobbut a murderer.  He’s fired t’ mine and made widows and orphans by t’ score,” “Ay,” said the other, “but there’s a worse villain behoind, that found t’ brass for t’ job and tempted this one.  We’ll catch him yet; ah, then we’ll not trouble judge, nor jury, nor hangman neether.”

“The wretches!” said Monckton.  “What! fire a mine!  No punishment is enough for them.”  With this sentiment he retired, and never went near the mine again.  He wired for a pal of his and established him at the Dun Cow.  These two were in constant communication.  Monckton’s friend was a very clever gossip, and knew how to question without seeming curious, and the gossiping landlady helped him.  So, between them, Monckton heard that Walter was down with a fever and not expected to live, and that Hope was confined to his bed and believed to be sinking.  Encouraged by this state of things, Monckton made many artful preparations, and resolved to levy a contribution upon Colonel Clifford.

At this period of his manoeuvres fortune certainly befriended him wonderfully; he found Colonel Clifford alone, and likely to be alone; and, at the same time, prepared by Grace Clifford’s half revelation, and violent agitation, to believe the artful tale this villain came to tell him.