e, fainted and
grew sick, languished and suffered so much pain. No wonder she concealed
it from Nellie--no wonder she had feared lest after many years he should
come back and claim her for his wife--no wonder either that a man with
such a face should do bad deeds.

Mr. Juxon was a judge of faces; persons accustomed for many years to
command men usually are. He noted Walter Goddard's narrow jaw and pointed
chin, his eyes set near together, his wicked lips, parted and revealing
sharp jagged teeth, his ill-shaped ears and shallow temples, his flat low
forehead, shown off by his cropped hair. And yet this man had once been
called handsome, he had been admired and courted. But then his hair had
hidden the shape of his head, his long golden moustache had covered his
mouth and disguised all his lower features, he had been arrayed by
tailors of artistic merit, and he had had much gold in his pockets. He
was a very different object now--the escaped convict, close cropped, with
a half-grown beard upon his ill-shaped face, and for all ornament a linen
sheet drawn up under his chin.

The squire was surprised that he did not recover consciousness, seeing
that he breathed regularly and was no longer so pale as at first. A faint
flush seemed to rise to his sunken cheeks, and for a long time Mr. Juxon
stood beside him, expecting every moment that he would speak. Once he
thought his lips moved a little. Then Mr. Juxon took a little brandy in a
spoon and raising his head poured it down his throat. The effect was
immediate. Goddard opened wide his eyes, the blood mounted to his cheeks
with a deep flush, and he uttered an inarticulate sound.

"What did you say?" asked the squire, bending over him.

But there was no answer. The sick man's head fell back upon the pillow,
though his eyes remained wide open and the flush did not leave his
cheeks. His pulse was now very high, and his breathing grew heavy and
stertorous.

"I hope I have not made him any worse," remarked Mr. Juxon aloud, as he
contemplated his patient. "But if he is going to die, I wish he would die
now."

The thought was charitable, on the whole. If Walter Goddard died then and
there, he would be buried in a nameless grave under the shadow of the
old church; no one would ever know that he was the celebrated forger, the
escaped convict, the husband of Mary Goddard. If he lived--heaven alone
knew what complications would follow if he lived.

There was a knock at the door.