“Yes, but to prove what?” said the lawyer sharply.

“That he paid me ten shillings a week down to last week, my lord.”

“That will do! That will do!” cried the earl in great glee. “Set a thief to catch a thief—that is the plan!”

Mr. Bonamy looked displeased. “I think you are a little premature, my lord,” he said with some sourness.

“Premature? How?”

“At present you have only this man’s word for what is on the face of it a very improbable story.”

“Improbable? I do not see it,” replied the peer quickly, but with less heat. “He says that he has witnesses to prove that this fellow paid him the money. If that be so, explain the payment if you can. And, mark you, Mr. Bonamy, the allowance stopped last week—on my arrival, that is.”

The man cried eagerly that that was so; the earl at once bidding him be silent for a confounded rascal as he was. Mr. Bonamy stood rubbing his chin thoughtfully and looking on the floor, but said nothing; so that the great man presently lost patience. “Don’t you agree with me?” he cried irascibly.

“I think we had better get rid of our friend here before we discuss the matter, my lord,” the lawyer answered bluntly. “Do you hear, Felton?” he continued, turning to the servant. “You may go now. Come to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, and I will tell you what Lord Dynmore proposes to do.”

The ex-valet would have demurred to being thus set aside, but the earl roaring “Go, you scoundrel!” in a voice he had been accustomed to obey, and Mr. Bonamy opening the door for him, he submitted and went. The streets were wet and gloomy, and he was more sober than he had been for a week. In other words, his nerves were shaky, and he soon began, as he slunk homeward, to torment himself with doubts. Had he made the best of his story? Might it not have been safer to make a last appeal to the rector? Above all, would Mr. Clode, whose game he did not understand, hold his hand, or play the trump by disclosing that little burglary we know of? Altogether Felton was not happy, and saw before him but one resource—to get home as quickly as possible and get drunk.