But was it likely that his proceedings should remain undiscovered? The presence of Winefred in Bath with her father was a menace to him. He did not anticipate a reconciliation between Jane Marley and Mr. Holwood, but he did fear lest the father should cease to pay the annuity through his hands, and especially lest his fraudulent conduct during many years should come to light and entail his transportation. He had laid by the accumulations with the object of taking an inn. His highest ambition was to end his days as a publican. His future was secure, should he not be found out, and he had already his eye on a suitable tavern, and had opened negotiations with the owner. Now discovery of his malpractices threatened from the side of Bath. He had not slept soundly since he had heard through Mrs. Jose that Mr. Holwood had recognised his daughter and was much in her society. He sought to stifle his anxieties by having recourse to spirits; but when he drank himself to sleep he found that his dreams were more terrifying than his waking fears. All would be well, he thought, could Holwood and his daughter be kept apart. That nothing as yet had transpired did not content him. Holwood was almost certain now to take it into his head to rearrange his expenditure, and in so doing to take account of what had already been paid to Jane, and then the exposure would ensue. Hitherto he had not entertained any fear of Winefred, but now he not only mistrusted her, but regarded her with animosity. If she could be kept away from Bath, and retained at Axmouth, all might be well. Her father was affectionately disposed towards her, but not very likely to desire to renew relations with her mother. Then he considered that he had seen Winefred on the edge of the cliff, walking unconcernedly where a false step would precipitate her to the shore. Why had not her foot slipped? Why had not the crumbling chalk yielded beneath her weight? He recalled tales of persons who had turned giddy when on an edge, and he cursed his folly in telling her that the birds had deserted the chalk cliffs on the Bindon side of the estuary, for otherwise she would have leaned over the edge and pried after their nests, and might have overbalanced; she might even have ventured to climb to their places of breeding, and in doing this have fallen. A fog came on, enveloping everything as in cotton wool, obscuring all sights, deadening all sounds. Presently Winefred would be on her way back from Seaton, to be put across, and then she would ascend the steep hill opposite and strike across the down to the cottage of her mother. In such a mist, what more likely than that she should lose her way, stumble over some obstruction, go over the cliff? And yet――no――likely it was not, seeing how familiar the girl was with every inch of the way.