"And you are all right."
"I am in hell," shrieked Bartley.
"Well, come out of it," said Monckton, "and let's talk sense. I—I read the news at Derby, just as I was starting for London. I have been as near the mine as I thought safe. They seem to be very busy clearing out both shafts—two steam-engines, constant relays of workmen. Who has got the job in hand?"
"I have," said Bartley.
"Well, that's clever of you to throw dust in their eyes, and put our little game off your own shoulders. You want to save appearances? You know you can not save William Hope."
"I can save him, and I will save him. God will have mercy on a penitent assassin, as he once had upon a penitent thief."
Monckton stared at him and smiled.
"Who has been talking to you—the parson?"
"My own conscience. I abhor myself as much as I do you, you black villain."
"Ah!" said Monckton, with a wicked glance, "that's how a man patters before he splits upon his pals, to save his own skin. Now, look here, old man, before you split on me ask yourself who had the greatest interest in this job. You silenced a dangerous enemy, but what have I gained? you ought to square with me first, as you promised. If you split upon me before that, you will put yourself in the hole and leave me out of it."