The words
now dropped out of Monckton's thin lips as if they were chips of granite,
so full of meaning was every syllable, and Bartley felt it.
"It's not so bad as it looks. There are only two men that know you
are a felon."
Bartley winced visibly.
"Now one of those men is to be bought"--Bartley lifted his head with a
faint gleam of hope at that--"and the other--has gone--down a coal-mine."
"What good will that do me?"
The villain paused, and looked Bartley in the face.
"That depends. Suppose you were to offer me what you offered Hope, and
suppose Hope--was never--to come up--again?"
"No such luck," said Bartley, shaking his head sorrowfully.
"Luck," said Monckton, contemptuously; "we make our own luck. Do you see
that vagabond lying under the tree, that's Ben Burnley."
"Ah!" said Bartley, "the ruffian Hope discharged."
"The same, and a man that is burning to be revenged on him: _he's_ your
luck, Mr. Bartley; I know the man, and what he has done in a mine
before to-day."
Then he drew near to Bartley's ear, and hissed into it these
fearful words:
"Send him down the mine, promise him five hundred pounds--if William
Hope--never comes up again--and William Hope never will.
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