"Listen to me," said Monckton, exchanging his cynical manner for a quiet and weighty one. Bartley began to wonder, and look at him with a sort of awe. The words now dropped out of Monckton's thin lips as if they were chips of granite, so full of meaning was every syllable, and Bartley felt it. "It's not so bad as it looks. There are only two men that know you are a felon." Bartley winced visibly. "Now one of those men is to be bought"--Bartley lifted his head with a faint gleam of hope at that--"and the other--has gone--down a coal-mine." "What good will that do me?" The villain paused, and looked Bartley in the face. "That depends. Suppose you were to offer me what you offered Hope, and suppose Hope--was never--to come up--again?" "No such luck," said Bartley, shaking his head sorrowfully. "Luck," said Monckton, contemptuously; "we make our own luck. Do you see that vagabond lying under the tree, that's Ben Burnley." "Ah!" said Bartley, "the ruffian Hope discharged." "The same, and a man that is burning to be revenged on him: _he's_ your luck, Mr. Bartley; I know the man, and what he has done in a mine before to-day." Then he drew near to Bartley's ear, and hissed into it these fearful words: "Send him down the mine, promise him five hundred pounds--if William Hope--never comes up again--and William Hope never will." Bartley drew back aghast. "Assassination!" he cried, and by a generous impulse of horror he half fled from the tempter; but Monckton followed him up and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Hush," said he, "you are getting too near that window; and it is open. Let me see there's nobody inside." He looked in. There was nobody. Grace was upstairs, but it did so happen that she came into the room soon after. "Nothing of the kind. Accident. Accidents will happen in mines, and talking of luck, this mine was declared dangerous this very day." "No, no," groaned Bartley, trembling in every limb, "it's a horrible crime; I dare not risk it." "It is but a risk. The alternative is certain. You will be indicted for fraud by the Cliffords." Bartley groaned. "They'll live in your home, they'll revel in your money, while you wear a cropped head--and a convict dress--in a stone cell at Portland." "No, never!" screamed Bartley. "Man, man; you are tempting me to my perdition!" "I am saving you. Just consider--where is the risk? It is only an accident, and who will suspect you? Men don't ruin their own mines. Here, just let me call him." Bartley made a faint gesture to forbid it, but Monckton pretended to take that as an assent. "Hy, Ben," he cried, "come here." "No, no," cried Bartley, "I'll have nothing to do with him." "Well," said Monckton, "then don't, but hear what he has got to say; he'll tell you how easily accidents happen in a mine."