“Through you?” said Richard, recovering himself, and speaking with a cunning sneer upon his face.
“This is no time for sneers, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, calmly. “The information was brought to me direct from the meeting.”
“By one of your spies?”
“By one of the workmen whom I have made my friend, and whom you have made your enemy; and he sends me as his messenger to pour coals of fire upon your head, saying, ‘Save this man, for if he goes out to-night it may be at the cost of his life.’ Mr Glaire, you will not go now?”
“Not go!” roared Richard, bringing his fist down heavily upon the table. “But I will go. Look here; I start from this house at seven o’clock to catch the mail-train; now go and tell the scoundrels you have made your friends—the men you have encouraged in their strike against me.”
“I encouraged them?” said the vicar, smiling at the absurdity of the charge, when he had striven so bravely for peace.
“Yes; you who have fed their wives and children, and lent them money so as to enable them to hold out against me—you, whose coming has been a curse to the place, for you have fostered the strike from the beginning.”
“There is no time to argue that, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, quietly; “and let me advise you once more. Give up this foolish idea of leaving, if not for your own sake, for that of your mother and your cousin here.”
“I shall not,” cried Richard. “I have made my arrangements, and I shall go, and let the blood of the man be on his own head who tries to stop me.”
“As you will,” said the vicar, calmly, as he turned to go.