“Not altogether, perhaps.  But I was perhaps wrong in letting her come here—­no, I am sure I was not,” he added impulsively, as though ashamed of having said anything so unkind.

“Certainly not.  You were quite right, Mr. Ambrose, quite right, I assure you.”

“Well, I hope all may yet be for the best,” said the vicar.

“Let us hope so,” replied Mr. Juxon gravely.  “By all means, let us hope that all may be for the best.”

Whether the squire doubted the possibility of so happy an issue to events or not, is uncertain.  He felt almost more sorry for the vicar than for himself; the vicar was such a good man, so unused to the violent deeds of violent people, of which the squire in his wanderings had seen more than was necessary to convince him that all was not always for the best in this best of all possible worlds.

Mr. Ambrose left his friend and as he retraced his steps through the park was more disturbed than ever.  That Goddard should contemplate killing the squire was bad enough, in all conscience, but that the squire should deliberately purpose to hunt down Goddard with his bloodhound seemed somehow even worse.  The vicar had indeed promised Mrs. Goddard that he would not help to capture her husband, but he would have been as glad as any one to hear that the convict was once more lodged in his prison.  There lurked in his mind, nevertheless, an impression that even a convict should have a fair chance.  The idea was not expressed, but existed in him.  Everybody, he would have said, ought to have a fair chance, and as the law of nations forbids the use of explosive bullets in warfare, the laws of humanity seemed to forbid the use of bloodhounds in the pursuit of criminals.  He had a very great respect for the squire’s character and principles, but the cold-blooded way in which Mr. Juxon had spoken of catching and probably killing Walter Goddard, had shaken the good vicar’s belief in his friend.  He doubted whether he were not now bound to return to Mrs. Goddard and to warn her in his turn of her husband’s danger, whether he ought not to do something to save the wretched convict from his fate.  It seemed hideous to think that in peaceful Billingsfield, in his own lonely parish, a human being should be exposed to such peril.  But at this point the vicar’s continuity forsook him.  He had not the heart to tell the tale of his interview with Mr. Juxon to the unhappy lady he had left that morning.  It was extremely improbable, he thought, that she should be able to communicate with her husband during the day, and the squire’s language led him to think that the day would not pass without some attempt to discover Walter Goddard’s hiding-place.  Besides, the vicar’s mind was altogether more disturbed than it had been in thirty years, and he was no longer able to account to himself with absolute accuracy for what he did.  At all events, he felt that it was better not to tell Mrs. Goddard what the squire had said.