e butt of the cheque I drew out of the book, lest any record
should remain likely to excite suspicion. I took the most elaborate
precautions to guard against discoveries.'

'And rather unnecessary ones,' rejoined Graham, dryly. 'Well, and you
met the scamp?'

'I did, on Sunday night--that Sunday I was at Southberry holding a
confirmation service, and as I rode back, shortly after eight in the
evening, I met Jentham, by appointment, at the Cross-Roads. It was a
stormy and wet night, Graham, and I half thought that he would not come
to the rendezvous, but he was there, sure enough, and in no very good
temper at his wetting, I did not get off my horse, but handed down the
packet of notes, and asked him for the certificate and letters.'

'Which, no doubt, he declined to part with at the last moment.'

'You are right,' said the bishop, mournfully; 'he declared that he would
keep the certificate until he received another hundred pounds.'

'The scoundrel! What did you say?' 'What could I say but "Yes"? I was
in the man's power. At any cost, if I wanted to save myself and those
dear to me, I had to secure the written evidence he possessed. I told
him that I had not the extra money with me, but that if he met me in the
same place a week later he should have it. I then rode away downcast and
wretched. The next day,' concluded the bishop, quietly, 'I heard that my
enemy was dead.'

'Murdered,' said Graham, explicitly.

'Murdered, as you say,' rejoined Pendle, tremulously; 'and oh, my
friend, I fear that the Cain who slew him now has the certificate in his
possession, and holds my secret. What I have suffered with that
knowledge, God alone knows. Every day, every hour, I have been expecting
a call from the assassin.'

'The deuce you have!' said the doctor, surprised into unbecoming
language.

'Yes; he may come and blackmail me also, Graham!'

'Not when he runs the risk of being hanged, my friend.'

'But you forget,' said the bishop, with a sigh. 'He may trust to his
knowledge of my secret to force me to conceal his sin.'

'Would you be coerced in that way?'

Dr Pendle threw back his noble head, and, looking intently at his
friend, replied in a firm and unfaltering tone. 'No,' said he, gravely.
'Even at the cost of my secret becoming known, I should have the man
arrested.'

'Well,' said Graham, with a shrug, 'you are more of a hero than I am,
bishop. The cost of exposing the wretch seems too great.'

'Graham! Grah