Bartley began to wonder, and look at him with a sort of awe. The words now dropped out of Monckton's thin lips as if they were chips of granite, so full of meaning was every syllable, and Bartley felt it.
"It's not so bad as it looks. There are only two men that know you are a felon."
Bartley winced visibly.
"Now one of those men is to be bought"—Bartley lifted his head with a faint gleam of hope at that—"and the other—has gone—down a coal-mine."
"What good will that do me?"
The villain paused, and looked Bartley in the face.
"That depends. Suppose you were to offer me what you offered Hope, and suppose Hope—was never—to come up—again?"
"No such luck," said Bartley, shaking his head sorrowfully.
"Luck," said Monckton, contemptuously; "we make our own luck. Do you see that vagabond lying under the tree, that's Ben Burnley."
"Ah!" said Bartley, "the ruffian Hope discharged."