Bayle did not answer, but stood gazing down at the smooth, handsome-looking man, with his artificial smile and easy manner; and it seemed as if the events of the past few years—since he came, so young and inexperienced, to the town—were flitting by him.
“A little money?—a little accommodation?” said Hallam, as his visitor did not speak.
Could Thickens be wrong? No: impossible. Too many little things, that had seemed unimportant before, now grew to a vast significance, and Bayle cast aside his hesitancy, and, taking a step forward, laid his hand upon the table.
“Robert Hallam!” he said, in a low, deep voice, full of emotion, “are you aware of your position—how you stand?”
The manager started slightly, but the spasm passed in a moment, and he said calmly, with a smile:
“My position? How I stand? I do not comprehend you! My dear Bayle, what do you mean?” The curate gazed in his eyes, a calm, firm, judicial look in his countenance; but Hallam did not flinch. And again the idea flashed across the visitor’s mind, “Suppose Thickens should be wrong!”
Again, though, he cast off his hesitation, and spoke out firmly.
“Let me be plain with you, Robert Hallam, and show you the precipice upon whose edge you stand.”
“Good heavens, Mr Bayle, are you ill?” said Hallam in the coolest manner.
“Yes; sick at heart, to find of what treachery to employers, to wife and child, a man like you can be guilty. Hallam, your great sin is discovered! What have you to say?”