ad apparently served Mr. Whitmore for a bed-chamber
and private study combined, for a bed stood in the corner, and a
bookcase and bureau on either side of the chimneypiece. In the
middle of the floor lay an open valise, and all around it a litter of
books and clothes, tossed here and there as their owner had dragged
them out to make a selection in his packing.

Mr. Rogers uttered a long whistle. "So you were bolting?" He stared
around, rubbing his chin, and fastened his eyes again on Whitmore.
"Now why to-night?"

"My conscience, Mr. Rogers--"

"Oh, the devil take your conscience! Your conscience seems to have
timed matters pretty accurately. Say that your nose smelt a rat.
But why to-night?"

I cannot say wherefore; but, as he stared around, a nausea seemed to
take the unfortunate man. Perhaps, the excitement of confession
over, the cold shadow of the end rose and thrust itself before him.
He was, I feel sure, a coward in grain. He swayed and caught at the
ledge of the chimneypiece, almost knocking over one of the two
candles which burned there.

With that there smote on our ears the sounds of two voices in
altercation outside--one a woman's high contralto. Footsteps came
bustling through the outer room and there stood on the threshold--
Miss Belcher.

She was attired in a low-crowned beaver hat and a riding habit the
skirt of which, hitched high in her left hand, disclosed a pair of
tall boots cut like hessians. On this hand blazed an enormous
diamond. The other, resting on her hip, held a hunting-crop and a
pair of gauntleted gloves.

"I bid ye be quiet, Sam Hodgson," she was saying to the expostulating
constable. "Man, if you dare to get in my way, I'll take the whip to
ye. To heel, I say! 'Mr. Rogers's orders?' Damn your impidence,
what do I care for Mr. Rogers? Why hallo, Jack!--"

As her gaze travelled round the room, Mr. Rogers stepped up and
addressed the constable across her.

"It's all right, Hodgson: you may go back to your post. Begad,
Lydia," he added as the constable withdrew, "this is a queer hour for
a call."

But Miss Belcher's gaze moved slowly from the Rector--whose bow she
answered with a curt nod--to me, and from me to the figure of
Whitmore by the fireplace.

"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Lord, if he's not fainting!"--and as
she ran, the curate swayed and almost fell into her arms.
"Brandy, Jack! I saw a bottle in the next room, didn't I? No, thank
ye, Rector.