'Go to yer mother, I tell y',' growled the man, whereupon Bell, seeing that her father was in a soberly brutal state, which was much more dangerous than his usual drunken condition, hastily left the room, and closed the door after her. 'An' now, m' lord,' continued Mosk, returning to the bishop, 'jus' look at me.' Dr Pendle did so, but it was not a pretty object he contemplated, for the man was untidy, unwashed and frowsy in looks. He was red-eyed and white-faced, but perfectly sober, although there was every appearance about him of having only lately recovered from a prolonged debauch. Consequently his temper was morose and uncertain, and the bishop, having a respect for the dignity of his position and cloth, felt uneasy at the prospect of a quarrel with this degraded creature. But Dr Pendle's spirit was not one to fail him in such an emergency, and he surveyed Mr Caliban in a cool and leisurely manner. 'I'm a father, I am!' continued Mosk, defiantly, 'an' as good a father as you. My gal's goin' to marry your son. Now, m' lord, what have you to say to that?' 'Moderate your tone, my man,' said the bishop, imperiously; 'a conversation conducted in this manner can hardly be productive of good results either to yourself or to your daughter.' 'I don' mean any 'arm!' replied Mosk, rather cowed, 'but I mean to 'ave m' rights, I do.' 'Your rights? What do you mean?' 'M' rights as a father,' explained the man, sulkily. 'Your son's bin runnin' arter m' gal, and lowerin' of her good name.' 'Hold your tongue, sir. Mr Pendle's intentions with regard to Miss Mosk are most honourable.' 'They'd better be,' threatened the other, 'or I'll know how to make 'em so. Ah, that I shall.' 'You talk idly, man,' said the bishop, coldly. 'I talk wot'll do, m' lord. Who's yer son, anyhow? My gal's as good as he, an' a sight better. She's born on the right side of the blanket, she is. There now!' A qualm as of deadly sickness seized Dr Pendle, and he started from his chair with a pale face and a startled eye. 'What do you--you--you mean, man?' he asked again. Mosk laughed scornfully, and lugging a packet of papers out of his pocket flung it on the table. 'That's what I mean,' said he; 'certif'cate! letters! story! Yer wife ain't yer wife; Gabriel's only Gabriel an' not Pendle at all!' 'Certificate! letters!' gasped the bishop, snatching them up. 'You got these from Jentham.' 'That I did; he left them with me afore he went out to meet you.' 'You--you murderer!' 'Murderer! Halloa!' cried Mosk, recoiling, pale and startled. 'Murderer!' repeated Dr Pendle. 'Jentham showed these to me on the common; you must have taken them from his dead body. You are the man who shot him.' 'It's a lie,' whispered Mosk, with pale lips, shrinking back, 'an' if I did, you daren't tell. I know your secret.' 'Secret or not, you shall suffer for your crime,' cried the bishop, with a stride towards the door. 'Stand back! It's a lie! I'm desperate. I didn't kill--Hark!'