they stood near each other, bede greatorex and his managing clerk, while mr. butterby paced the passage outside.

when interrupted, bede had his elbow on the mantelpiece, his brow bent on his thin fingers. a good blazing fire here, the coal crackling and sparkling cheerily. bede dropped his elbow.

"what is it, mr. brown?" he rather languidly asked.

mr. brown, closing the door, went straight up and said what it was: alletha rye had been apprehended. but he looked anywhere, as he spoke, rather than into the face of his master. a face that grew suddenly white and cold: and mr. brown, in his delicacy of mind, would not appear to see it.

"what a cursed meddler that butterby is!" exclaimed bede.

"i fancy he had no option in this, sir; that it was not left to his choice."

"who did it, then?"

"mr. greatorex. this must be remedied at once, sir."

by the authoritative manner in which he spoke, it might have been thought that bede greatorex was the servant, brown the master. bede put his elbow on the shelf again, and pushed back his hair in unmistakable agitation. it was growing thin now, the once luxuriant crop; and silver threads were interwoven with the black ones.

"she must be saved," repeated mr. brown.

"i suppose so. who is to do it?"

"i must, sir. if no one else does."

bede raised his eyes to glance at his clerk; but it was not a full free glance, and they were instantly dropped again.

"you are the godfrey pitman, they tell me, who was in the house at the time."

"yes, i am. but have you not known it all along, mr. bede greatorex?"

"all along from when?"

mr. brown hesitated. "from the time i came here as clerk."

"no; certainly i have not."

"there were times, sir, when i fancied it."

a long silence. even now, whatever secret, or association, there might be between these two men, neither was at ease with the other. bede especially seemed to shrink from farther explanation.

"i have known but for a short while of your identity with godfrey pitman," he resumed. "and with george winter. i have been waiting my own time to confer with you upon the subject. we have been very busy."

we have been very busy! if bede put that forth as an excuse, it did not serve him: for his hearer knew it was not the true one. he simply answered that they had been very busy. not by so much as a look or a syllable would george winter--let us at last give him his true name--add to the terrible pain he knew his master to be suffering.

"about miss rye, sir? she must be extricated from her unpleasant position."

"yes, of course."

"and her innocence proved."

"at the expense of another?" asked bede, without lifting his eyes.

"no," answered the other in a low tone. "i do not think that need be."

bede looked straight into the fire, his companion full at the window-blind, drawn half way down; neither of them at one another.

"how will you avoid it?" asked bede.

"i think it may be avoided, sir. for a little while past, i have foreseen that some such a crisis as this would come: and i have dwelt and dwelt upon it until i seem to be able to track out my way in it perfectly clear."

bede cracked the coal in the grate; which did not require cracking. "do you mean that you have foreseen miss rye would be taken? such a thought in regard to her never crossed my mind."

"nor mine. i allude to myself, sir. if once i was discovered to be the so-called godfrey pitman--and some instinct told me the discovery was at last approaching--i knew that i should, in all probability, be charged with the murder of mr. ollivera. i--an innocent man--would not suffer for this, mr. greatorex; i should be obliged, in self-defence, to repel the accusation: and i have been considering how it might be done without compromising others. i think it can be."

"how?" repeated bede shortly.

"by my not telling the whole truth. by not knowing--i mean not having recognized the--the one--who would be compromised if i did tell it. i think this is feasible, sir."

just a momentary glance into each other's eyes; no more; and it spoke volumes. bede, facing the fire again, stood several minutes in deep consideration. george winter seemed occupied with one of his gloves that had a refractory button.

"in any case it must now be known who you are," said bede.

"that will not signify. in throwing the onus of the----" he seemed to hesitate, as he had once hesitated in the last sentence--"the death off miss rye, i throw it equally off my own shoulders. i have for some months wished that i could declare myself."

"why have you not done it?"

george winter looked at his master, surprise in his eyes. "it is not for my own sake that i have kept it concealed, sir."

no. bede greatorex knew that it was for his; at least for his interests; and he felt the obligation in his heart. he did not speak it; pride and a variety of other unhappy feelings kept him silent. of all the miserable moments that the death of john ollivera had entailed upon him, this confidential interview with his clerk was not the least of them. forced though he was to hold it, he hated it with his whole soul.

"you took that cheque from my desk," said bede. "and wrote me the subsequent letter."

"i did not take it from the desk, sir. your expressed and continuous belief--that you had put it in--was a mistaken one. it must have slipped from your hands when about to lock up the other papers you held, and fluttered under the desk table. perhaps you will allow me to give you the explanation now."

bede nodded.

"in the morning of the day that the cheque was lost, you may remember coming into the front room and seeing a stranger with me. his name was foster; a farmer and corn-dealer near birmingham. i had been out on an errand; and, on turning in again, a gentleman stopped me to enquire the way. while i was directing him there ensued a mutual recognition. in one sense i owed him some money: forty-four pounds. samuel teague, of whom you may have heard----"

"i know," interrupted bede.

"samuel teague, just before he ran away, had got me to put my name to a bill for him; mr. foster, in all good faith, had let him have the money for it. it had never been repaid. but upon mr. foster's meeting me that morning, he gave me my choice--to find the money for him before he left london, or be denounced publicly as george winter. i thought he would have denounced me then. he came into the office and would not be got rid of: saying that he had looked for me too long to let me go, now that i was found. what i was to do i did not know. i had no objection to resume my own name, for i had cleared myself with johnson and teague, but it must have involved the exposure relating to the affair at helstonleigh. the thought occurred to me of declaring the dilemma to you, letting you decide whether that exposure should come, or whether you would lend me the forty-four pounds to avert it. but i shrank from doing that."

"why?" again interposed bede.

"because i thought you would dislike my entering upon the subject, sir. i have shrunk from it always. now that the necessity is forced upon me, i am shrinking from it as i speak."

ah, but not so much as bede was. "go on."

"while i sat at my desk, inwardly deliberating, mr. frank came in, asking you to draw out a cheque for sir richard yorke for forty-four pounds. the strange coincidence between the sum and the money demanded of me, struck me as being most singular. it strikes me so still. later in the morning, i came into this room with some deeds, and saw a piece of paper lying under the table. upon picking it up--which i did simply to replace it on the desk--i found it was the cheque. my first thought was that it must be a special, almost a supernatural, intervention in my favour; my second, that it was just possible you had left it there for me to take. both ideas very far-fetched and imaginatory, as i saw at once. but i used the cheque, mr. bede greatorex. i went home, put on the false hair i had worn as godfrey pitman, for i have it by me still, and got the cheque cashed in gold. it was not for my sake i did this; i hated it bitterly. and then i hesitated to use the money. at night i went to mr. foster's hotel, and told him that i would get the money for him by the following night if i could; if i could not, he must carry out his threat of denouncing me to the public and mr. greatorex. foster consented to wait. i returned to my lodgings and wrote that anonymous note to you, sir, not telling you who had taken the cheque; merely saying that exposure was threatened of the private circumstances, known only to one or two, attendant on mr. ollivera's death at helstonleigh; that the money had been taken to avert the exposure, and would be applied to that purpose, provided you were agreeable. if not, and you wished the money returned, you were requested to drop a note without loss of a moment to a certain address: if no such note were written, the money would be used in the course of the day, and things kept silent as heretofore. you sent no answer, and i paid it to foster in the evening. i have never been able to decide whether you suspected me as the writer, or not."

"no. i fancied it might be hurst."

"hurst!" exclaimed george winter in great surprise.

bede looked up for a moment. "i felt sure the cheque must have been taken by one of you in the next room. not knowing you then for godfrey pitman, my thoughts fell on hurst. his father was the attendant surgeon, and might have made some critical discovery."

"i don't see how he could have done that, sir," was the dissenting answer.

"nor did i. but it is the doubt in these cases that causes the fear. i should like to ask you a question--was it by accident or purposed design that you came to our house as a clerk?"

"purely by accident. when the misfortunes fell upon me in birmingham, and i was unwise enough to follow samuel teague's example and run away, i retained one friend, who stood by me. after quitting helstonleigh on the monday night, i concealed myself elsewhere for three or four days, and then went to him in essex, where he lived. he procured me a clerkship in a lawyer's office in the same county, mr. cale's, with whom i stayed about a year. mr. cale found me very useful, and when his health failed, and he retired in consequence from practice, he sent me up here to mr. greatorex with a strong recommendation."

"you have served us well," said bede. "was not your quitting birmingham a mistake?"

"the worst i ever made. i solemnly declare that i was entirely innocent. not only innocent myself, but unsuspicious of anything wrong on the part of samuel teague. he took me in, as he took in everybody else. johnson and teague know it now, and have at length done me the justice to acknowledge it. i knew of young teague's profuse expenditure: he used to tell me he had the money from his uncle old mr. teague, and it never occurred to me to doubt it. where i erred, was in going to the old man and blurting out the truth. he died of the shock. i shall never forgive myself for that: it seemed to me always as though i had murdered him. with his dead form, as it seemed, pursuing me, with the knowledge that i was to be included in the charge of forgery, i lost my sober senses. in my fright, i saw no escape but in flight; and i got away on the sunday afternoon as far as helstonleigh. it was in the opposite direction to the one samuel teague was thought to have taken, and i wanted to see alletha rye, if it were practicable, and assure her before we finally parted, that, though bad enough, i was not quite the villain people were making me out to be. there--there are strange coincidences in this life, mr. bede greatorex."

"you may well say that," answered bede.

"and one of the strangest was that of my accidentally meeting alletha rye five minutes after i reached helstonleigh. forgetting my disguise, i stopped to accost her--and have not forgotten her surprise yet. but i had not courage then to tell her the truth: i simply said i was in trouble through false friends, and was ill--which was really the case--and i asked her if she could shelter me for a day or two, or could recommend me to a place where i might be private and to myself. the result was, that i went to mrs. jones's house, introduced as a stranger, one godfrey pitman. i hit upon the name haphazard. and before i left it i was drawn into that business concerning mr. ollivera."

bede greatorex made no answer. a coincidence! one of heaven's sending.

"why so much ill-luck should have fallen upon me i cannot tell," resumed george winter. "i started in life, hoping and intending to do my duty as conscientiously as most men do it; and i've tried to, that's more. fate has not been kind to me."

"there are others that it has been less kind to," spoke bede, his tone marked with ill-suppressed agitation. "your liabilities in birmingham? are they wiped out?"

"others' liabilities you mean, sir; i had none of my own. yes, i have scraped, and saved, and paid; paid all. i am saving now to repay you the forty-four pounds, and have about twenty pounds towards it. but for having my good old mother on my hands--she lives in wales--i should have been clear earlier."

"you need not trouble yourself about the forty-four pounds," said bede, recognising the wondrous obligations he and his were under to this silent, self-denying man.

"if it were forty-four hundred, sir, i should work on until i paid it, life being granted me."

"very well," replied bede. "i may be able to recompense you in another way."

if bede greatorex thought that any simple order of his would release miss rye from custody, he found himself mistaken. butterby, called into the conference, was almost pleasantly derisive.

"you'll assure me she was not guilty! and mr. brown there can assure me she was not guilty! and, following them words up, you say, 'let her go, butterby!' why, you might about as well tell me to let the stars drop out of the sky, mr. bede greatorex. i've no more power over one than i have over the other."

"but she is innocent," reiterated bede. "mr. brown here--you know who he is--can testify to it."

butterby gave a careless nod in the direction of mr. brown--as much as to say that his knowing who he was went for a matter of course. but he was sternly uncompromising.

"look here, mr. bede greatorex. it's all very well for you to say to me miss rye's innocent; and for that there clever gentleman by your side to say she's innocent--and himself too, i suppose he'd like to add; but you, as a lawyer, must know that all that is of no manner of use. if you two will bring forward the right party, and say, 'this is the one that was guilty,' and prove it to the satisfaction of the law and mr. greatorex, that would be another thing. only in that case can miss rye be set at liberty."

"you--you do not know what family interests are involved in this, mr. butterby," bede said, in a tone of pain.

"can guess at 'em," responded butterby.

bede inwardly thought the boast was a mistaken one, but he let it pass.

"if my father were acquainted with the true facts of the case," spoke he, "he would never bring it to a public trial; i tell you this on my honour."

"you know yourself who the party was; i see that," said butterby.

"i do--heaven spare me!"

there was a strange tone of helplessness mingling with the anguish of the avowal, as if bede could contend with fate no longer. even the officer felt for him. george winter looked round at him with a glance of caution, as much as to say there was no necessity to avow too much. bede bent his head, and strove to see, as well as the hour's trouble and perplexity would allow him, what might and what might not be done. butterby, responsible to the magistrates at helstonleigh who had granted the warrant, would have to be satisfied, as well as mr. greatorex.

another minute, and bede went forth to seek an interview with his father, who was alone in his room. bede, almost as though he were afraid of his courage leaving him, entered upon the matter before he had well closed the door. not in any torrent of words: he spoke but a few, and those with almost painful calmness: but his breath was laboured, himself perceptibly agitated.

"give my authority to butterby to release alletha rye from custody, because you happen to know that she is innocent!" exclaimed mr. greatorex in surprise. "why, what can you mean, bede?"

bede told his tale. hampered by various doubting fears lest he might drop an unsafe word, it was rather a lame one. mr. greatorex leaned back in his chair, and looked up at bede as he listened. they held, unconsciously, much the same position as they had that march day nearly five years ago in another room, when the tale of the death was first told, bede having then just got up with it from helstonleigh mr. greatorex sitting, bede standing with his arm on the mantelpiece, his face partly turned away. bede had grown quite into the habit of standing thus, to press his hand to his brow: it seemed as though some weight or pain were always there.

"i don't understand you, bede," spoke mr. greatorex frankly. "you tell me that you know of your own cognisance alletha rye was innocent? that you knew it at the time?"

"almost of my own cognisance," corrected bede.

"which must be equivalent to saying that you know who was guilty."

"no; i don't know that," murmured bede, his face growing damp with the conscious lie.

"then what do you know, that you should wish to interfere? you have always said it was a case of suicide."

"it was not that, father," was bede's low, shrinking answer. but he looked into his father's eyes with thrilling earnestness as he gave it.

mr. greatorex began to feel slightly uncomfortable. he detested mystery of all kinds; and there was something unpleasantly mysterious in bede's voice and looks and words and manner.

"did you know at the time that it was not suicide?" pursued mr. greatorex.

how should bede get through this? say what he must say, and yet not say too much? he inwardly asked himself the question.

"there was just a suspicion of it on my mind, sir. anyway, alletha rye must be set at liberty."

"i do not understand what you say, bede; i do not understand you. your manner on this subject has always been an enigma. william ollivera holds the opinion that you must be screening someone."

a terrible temptation, hard to battle with, assailed bede greatorex at the charge--to avow to his father who and what he had been screening ever since the death. he forced himself to silence until it had passed.

"what is troubling you, bede?"

mr. greatorex might well ask it; with that sad countenance in front of him, working with its pain. in his grievous perplexity, bede gave the true answer.

"i was thinking if it were possible for pitman's explanation to be avoided, father."

"what! is pitman found?"

"yes, he is found," quietly answered bede. "he----"

the room door was opening to admit some visitors, and bede turned. surely the propitious star to the house of greatorex could not be in the ascendant. for they were judge kene and henry william ollivera.

and the concealment that he had striven and toiled for, and worn out his health and life to keep; fighting ever, mentally or bodily, against fate's relentless hand, was felt to be at an end by bede greatorex.