that it might not be his
duty to see him; so he told the footman to say, "that he was in point of
fact engaged, but was at this gentleman's service for a few minutes."

The footman retired, and promptly ushered in a clergyman who seemed the
model of an archdeacon or a wealthy rector. Sleek and plump, without
corpulence, neat boots, clothes black and glossy, waistcoat up to the
throat, neat black gloves, a snowy tie, a face shaven like an egg, hair
and eyebrows grizzled, cheeks rubicund, but not empurpled, as one who
drank only his pint of port, but drank it seven days in the week.

Nevertheless, between you and us, this sleek, rosy personage, archdeacon
or rural dean down to the ground was Leonard Monckton, padded to the
nine, and tinted as artistically as any canvas in the world.

* * * * *

The first visit Monckton had paid to this neighborhood was to the mine.
He knew that was a dangerous visit, so he came at night as a decrepit old
man. He very soon saw two things which discouraged farther visits. One
was a placard describing his crime in a few words, and also his person
and clothes, and offering 500 guineas reward. As his pallor was
specified, he retired for a minute behind a tent, and emerged the color
of mahogany; he then pursued his observations, and in due course fell in
with the second warning. This was the body of a man lying upon the slack
at the pit mouth; the slack not having been added to for many days was
glowing very hot, and fired the night. The body he recognized
immediately, for the white face stared at him; it was Ben Burnley
undergoing cremation. To this the vindictive miners had condemned him;
they had sat on his body and passed a resolution, and sworn he should not
have Christian burial, so they managed to hide his corpse till the slack
got low, and then they brought him up at night and chucked him like a dog
on to the smouldering coal; one-half of him was charred away when
Monckton found him, but his face was yet untouched. Two sturdy miners
walked to and fro as sentinels, armed with hammers, and firmly resolved
that neither law nor gospel should interfere with this horrible example.

Even Monckton, the man of iron nerves, started back with a cry of dismay
at the sight and the smell.

One of the miners broke into a hoarse, uneasy laugh. "Yow needn't to
skirl, old man." he cried. "Yon's not a man; he's nobbut a murderer. He's
fired t' mine and made widows and o