he will nor the desire
for palavering."

"Oh, Richard, do keep your temper!" implored Dorothy. "Can you not see
that Mr. Allen desires to do us--to do you--a service?"

"Of that I am not so sure," I replied.

"It is his way, Miss Manners," said the rector, "and I hold it not
against him. To speak truth, I looked for a worse reception, and came
steeled to withstand it. And had my skin been thin, I had left ere now."
He took more snuff. "It was Mr. Dix," he said to me slowly, "who
informed Mr. Carvel of your presence in London."

"And how the devil did Mr. Dix know?"

He did not reply, but glanced apprehensively at Dorothy.

And I have wondered since at his consideration.

"Miss Manners may not wish to hear," he said uneasily.

"Miss Manners hears all that concerns me," I answered.

He shrugged his shoulders in comprehension.

"It was Mr. Manners, then, who went to Mr. Dix, and told him under the
pledge of secrecy."

Not a sound came from Dorothy, nor did I dare to look at her face. The
whole matter was clear to me now. After his conversation with me, Mr.
Marmaduke had lost no time in seeing Mr. Dix, in order to raise money on
my prospects. And the man of business had gone straight to Grafton with
the intelligence. The suspicion flashed through me that Mr. Allen had
been sent to spy, but his very next words disarmed it.

"And now, Richard," he continued, "before I say what I have come to say,
and since you cannot now prosecute me, I mean to confess to you something
which you probably know almost to a certainty. I was in the plot to
carry you off and deprive you of your fortune. I have been paid for it,
though not very handsomely. Fears for my own safety alone kept me from
telling you and Mr. Swain. And I swear to you that I was sorry for the
venture almost before I had embarked, and ere I had received a shilling.
The scheme was laid out before I took you for a pupil; indeed, that was
part of it, as you no doubt have guessed. As God hears me, I learned to
love you, Richard, in those days at the rectory. You were all of a man,
and such an one as I might have hoped to be had I been born like you.
You said what you chose, and spoke from your own convictions, and catered
to no one. You did not whine when the luck went against you, but lost
like a gentleman, and thought no more of it. You had no fear of the
devil himself. Why should you? While your cousin Philip, with his
parrot talk and sneaking ways, turned my s