“I was tempted, sir,” the servant answered, his tone abject again. “I confess it truly, sir. I saw the money in the box here this morning, sir, and I thought that my ten shillings a week would not last long, and a little capital would set me up comfortably. And then the devil put it into my head that the young gentleman would not persecute me, even if he caught me.” “You did not think of me catching you?” said the curate grimly. The man uttered a cry of anguish. “That I did not, sir,” he sobbed. “Oh, Lord! I have never had a policeman’s hand on me. I have been honest always.” “Until you took his lordship’s money,” replied the curate quietly. “But I understand. You have never been found out before, you mean.” No doubt when people of a certain class, for which respectability has long spelled livelihood, do fall into the law’s clutch they suffer very sharply. Master Felton continued to pour forth heartrending prayers; but he might have saved his breath. The curate’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking that a witness so valuable must be kept within reach at any cost and it did flash across his brain that the best course would be to hand him over now to the police, and trust to the effect which his statements respecting the rector should produce upon the inquiry. But the reflection that the allegations of a man on his trial for burglary would not obtain much credence led Clode to reject this simple course and adopt another. “Look here!” he said curtly. “I am going to deal mercifully with you, my man. But—but,” he continued, frowning impatiently, as he saw the other about to speak—“on certain conditions. You are not to leave Claversham. That is the first. If you leave the town before I give you the word, I shall put the police on your track without an instant’s delay. Do you hear that?” “I will stop as long as you like, sir,” said the servant submissively, but with wonder apparent both in his voice and face. “Very well. I wish it for the present, no matter why. Perhaps because I would see that you lead an honest life for awhile.” “And—how shall I live, sir?” said the culprit timidly. “For the present you may continue to draw your half-sovereign a week,” the curate answered hastily, his face reddening, he best knew why. “Possibly I may tell Mr. Lindo at once. Possibly I may give you another chance, and tell him later, if I find you deserving. What is your address?” “I am at the Bull and Staff,” muttered Felton. It was a small public house of no very good repute. “Well, stay there,” Stephen Clode answered after a moment’s thought. “But see you get into no harm. And since you are living on the rector’s bounty, you may say so.”