“Because I heard him read a letter from his agents about it,” the fellow replied at once. “And from what his lordship said I knew it was his old pal—his old friend, sir, I mean, begging your pardon humbly, sir.”
“And when did you learn,” said the curate more quickly, “that the gentleman here was not your Mr. Lindo?”
“I heard in the town that he was a young man. And, putting one thing and another together, and keeping a still tongue myself, I thought he would serve me as well as the other, and I called——”
“What did you say?”
“Not much, sir,” answered the valet, a twinkle of cunning in his eye. “The less said the sooner mended. But he understood, and he promised to give me ten shillings a week.”
“To hold your tongue?”
“Well, so I took it, sir.”
The curate drew a long breath. This was what he had expected. It was to information which might be drawn from this man that his second scheme had referred. And here was the man at his service, bound by a craven fear to do his bidding—bound to tell all he knew. “But why,” Clode asked suspiciously, a thought striking him, “if what you say be true, are you here now—doing this, my man?”
“I was tempted, sir,” the servant answered, his tone abject again. “I confess it truly, sir. I saw the money in the box here this morning, sir, and I thought that my ten shillings a week would not last long, and a little capital would set me up comfortably. And then the devil put it into my head that the young gentleman would not persecute me, even if he caught me.”
“You did not think of me catching you?” said the curate grimly.