--"Who, I suppose, promptly put it into circulation in Plymouth,
where by chance it was handed to me amid the change when I paid my
hotel-bill--if indeed you are absolutely sure you were given this
coin by me."

"Come, Rogers, that's an explanation I myself suggested," put in the
Rector.

"The folks at the Royal Hotel," answered Mr. Rogers curtly, "tell me
that you paid your bill in silver."

It seemed to me that Mr. Rogers was pressing Whitmore harshly, almost
with a note of private vindictiveness in his voice. But while I
wondered at this my eyes fell on the curate's hand as it played
nervously with the base of the brass candlestick. There was a ring
on the little finger: and in an instant I knew--though I could not
have sworn to it in court--yet knew more certainly than many things
to which I could have testified on oath--that this was the hand I had
seen closing the door in the Jew's House.

Through a buzzing of the brain I heard him addressing the Rector and
protesting against the absurdity, the monstrosity, of the charge--yet
still with that recurring agonised glance at me. But my eyes now
were on Mr. Rogers; and the buzzing ceased and my brain cleared when
he swung round, inviting me to speak. I cannot tell what question he
put to me, but what I said was:

"If you please, sirs, the runners are after me; and it isn't fair to
make me tell yet what happened in the Jew's house, or what I saw
there: for what I told might be twisted and turned against me."

"Nonsense!" interrupted Mr. Rogers. But the Rector nodded his head.
"The boy's right. He's under suspicion himself, and should have a
lawyer to advise him before he speaks. That's only fair play."

"But," I went on "there's another thing, if you'll be pleased to ask
Mr. Whitmore about it. Why is he paying money to a soldier--a man
who calls himself Letcher, but his real name is Leicester? And what
have they been plotting against Miss Isabel down at the Cottage?"

CHAPTER XVII.

LYDIA BELCHER INTERVENES.

The effect of my words astounded me. As a regiment holding itself
bravely against an attack in front will suddenly melt at an
unexpected shout on its flank and collapse without striking another
blow, so Mr. Whitmore collapsed. His jaw fell; his eyes wildly
searched the dim corners of the room; his hands gripped the edge of
the table; he dropped slowly into the chair behind him, dragging the
tablecloth askew as he sank.

With that I f