"Damn thee for a liar!" cried the old man, furiously; and before the vicar could prevent him, he had Richard by the throat, and down upon his knees, faintly protesting his innocence. "It's no forgery. It's thee own false writing same as these," he cried; "your cursed love-letters to my poor bairn." He tore a bundle of notes from his breast, notes Richard had warned poor Daisy to burn, but which the weak girl had treasured up in secret, to be found in her room when she had gone. "Look!" he cried, as he held Sim Slee's fatal note of instructions out beside the others; "are these lies and forgeries? Mebbe you think I'll believe thee now, as I've troosted thee throughout. Didn't I think thou wert thy poor owd father's honest son--the gentleman he had tried to mak' thee? Didn't I stand by thee when all ta town was again thee, fowt for thee, looked on thee as my son, and you turn and sting me like a cowardly snake in the grass?" "He did, Joe, he did," cried a voice in the crowd, as they stood back now, content to watch for the punishment that should fall on their enemy, while Sim Slee, the man who had betrayed him, smiled like a despicable modern Judas, gloating in the revenge he was taking on the employer who had struck him in the face. "Damn thee, be silent!" roared Joe, as, with a wild look of fury, he seized the poker as if to strike, and Richard crouched to the ground, and uttered a shriek of dread. "For God's sake, Banks!" cried the vicar, catching at his arm, but unable to stay him. "Man, are you mad?" "A'most, parson," he said, turning on him. "Thou told me to tak' care; thou gave me fair warning 'bout it all, and like a fool--no, like a man who wouldn't believe it--I turned upon thee when thou wast raight, for I couldn't and wouldn't believe he was such a liar and villain. Look at him, lads, look at the cold-blooded snake, as could stoop to ruin a poor trustin' fool of all he held dear in life, and now all he has to say is a lie." "I am innocent, Joe, indeed," cried the young man. "Thou lies," cried Banks, furiously; and he raised his weapon again, but only to dash it into the fireplace. Then, stooping, he caught the shivering man by the throat, dragged him up, and held him against the wall, while not a sound was heard but the panting of breath, and the hoarse mutterings of the stricken father. "Banks, Banks!" cried the vicar imploringly. "Let me be, parson, let me be," he said in a low voice. "Thou'rt a good man, and may trust me." Then aloud, "Richard Glaire, I'm a poor, half-broken workman, and thou'st robbed me." "No, no," panted Richard, "Mr Selwood, Harry, Podmore, help!"