ility.

"I understand," answered Mr. Ambrose gravely. It certainly did not strike
him that it might be true, and his knowledge of such characters as Walter
Goddard was got chiefly from the newspapers. He had often noticed in
reports of trials and detailed descriptions of crimes that criminals seem
to become entirely irrational after a certain length of time, and it was
one of the arguments he best understood for demonstrating that bad men
either are originally, or ultimately become mad. To men like the vicar,
almost the only possible theory of crime is the theory of insanity. It is
positively impossible for a man who has passed thirty or forty years in a
quiet country parish to comprehend the motives or the actions of great
criminals. He naturally says they must be crazy or they would not do such
things. If Goddard were crazy enough to commit a forgery, he was crazy
enough for anything, even to the extent of suspecting that his wife loved
the squire.

"I think," said Mr. Ambrose, "that if you agree with me it will be best
to warn Mr. Juxon of his danger."

"Of course," murmured Mrs. Goddard. "You must warn him at once!"

"I will go to the Hall now," said the vicar bravely. "But--I am very
sorry to have to dwell on the subject, my dear lady, but, without wishing
in the least to know where the--your husband is, could you tell me
anything about his appearance? For instance, if you understand what I
mean, supposing that Mr. Juxon knew how he looked and should happen to
meet him, knowing that he wished to kill him--he might perhaps avoid him,
if you understand me?"

The vicar's English was a little disturbed by his extreme desire not to
hurt Mrs. Goddard's feelings. If the squire and his dog chanced to meet
Walter Goddard they would probably not avoid him as the vicar expressed
it; that was a point Mr. Ambrose was willing to leave to Mrs. Goddard's
imagination.

"Yes--must you know?" she asked anxiously.

"We must know that," returned the vicar.

"He is disguised as a poor tramp," she said sorrowfully. "He wears a
smock-frock and an old hat I think. He is pale--oh, poor, poor Walter!"
she cried again bursting into tears.

Mr. Ambrose could say nothing. There was nothing to be said. He rose and
took his hat--the old tall hat he wore to his parishioners' funerals.
They were very primitive people in Billingsfield.

"I will go at once," he said. "Believe me, you have all my sympathy--I
will do all I can."

Mary God