"One thing at a time," said Monckton. "Did I rob you of twenty thousand pounds, as you robbed Mr. Walter Clifford?"
His voice became still more incisive, and the curtain of the little room opened a little and two eyes of fire looked in.
"Do you remember one fine day your clerk, Walter Clifford, asking you for leave of absence—to be married?"
Bartley turned his back on him contemptuously.
But Colonel Clifford insisted on his replying.
"Yes, he did," said Bartley, sullenly.
"But," said the Colonel, quietly, "he thought better of it, and so—you married her yourself."
This bayonet thrust was so keen and sudden that the villain's self-possession left him for once. His mouth opened in dismay, and his eyes, roving to and fro, seemed to seek a door to escape.
But there was worse in store for him. The curtains were drawn right and left with power, and there stood Grace Clifford, beautiful, but pale and terrible. She marched toward him with eyes that rooted him to the spot, and then she stopped.
"Now hear me; for he has tortured me, and tried to kill me. Look at his white face turning ghastly beneath his paint at the sight of me; look at his thin lips, and his devilish eyebrows, and his restless eyes. THIS IS THE MAN THAT BRIBED THAT WRETCH TO FIRE THE MINE!"