k
are most honourable.'

'They'd better be,' threatened the other, 'or I'll know how to make 'em
so. Ah, that I shall.'

'You talk idly, man,' said the bishop, coldly.

'I talk wot'll do, m' lord. Who's yer son, anyhow? My gal's as good as
he, an' a sight better. She's born on the right side of the blanket, she
is. There now!'

A qualm as of deadly sickness seized Dr Pendle, and he started from his
chair with a pale face and a startled eye.

'What do you--you--you mean, man?' he asked again.

Mosk laughed scornfully, and lugging a packet of papers out of his
pocket flung it on the table. 'That's what I mean,' said he;
'certif'cate! letters! story! Yer wife ain't yer wife; Gabriel's only
Gabriel an' not Pendle at all!'

'Certificate! letters!' gasped the bishop, snatching them up. 'You got
these from Jentham.'

'That I did; he left them with me afore he went out to meet you.'

'You--you murderer!'

'Murderer! Halloa!' cried Mosk, recoiling, pale and startled.

'Murderer!' repeated Dr Pendle. 'Jentham showed these to me on the
common; you must have taken them from his dead body. You are the man who
shot him.'

'It's a lie,' whispered Mosk, with pale lips, shrinking back, 'an' if I
did, you daren't tell. I know your secret.'

'Secret or not, you shall suffer for your crime,' cried the bishop, with
a stride towards the door.

'Stand back! It's a lie! I'm desperate. I didn't kill--Hark!'

There was a noise outside which terrified the guilty conscience of the
murderer. He did not know that the officers of justice were at the door,
not did the bishop, but the unexpected sound turned their blood to
water, and made their hearts, the innocent and the guilty, knock at
their ribs. A sharp knock came at the door.

'Help!' cried the bishop. 'The murderer!' and he sprang forward to
throw himself on the shaking, shambling wretch. Mosk eluded him, but
uttered a squeaking cry like the shriek of a hunted hare in the jaws of
the greyhound. The next instant the room seemed to swarm with men, and
the bishop as in a dream heard the merciless formula of the law
pronounced by Tinkler,--

'In the name of the Queen I arrest you, William Mosk, on a charge of
murder.'

CHAPTER XXXV

THE HONOUR OF GABRIEL

Great as had been the popular excitement over Jentham's death, it was
almost mild compared with that which swept through Beorminster when his
murderer was discovered and arrested. No one had ever thought of
con