Roger was at home, in bed, and sick; there was no
escape; and Simon chuckled at the lucky chance. So he crept in,
carefully shut the door, put his finger on his lips to hush Roger's note
of admiration at so little wished a vision; and then, with one of his
accustomed scared and fearful looks behind him, muttered under his
breath,
"Man, that gold is mine: I have paid its price to the uttermost; give me
the honey-pot."
Roger's first answer was a vulgar oath; but his tipsy courage faded soon
away before old habits of subserviency, and he faltered out,
"I--I--Muster Jennings! I've got no pot of gold!"
"Man, you lie! you have got the money! give it me at once--and--" he
added in a low, hoarse voice, "we will not say a word about the murder."
"Murder!" echoed the astonished man.
"Ay, murder, Acton:--off! off, I say!" he muttered parenthetically, then
wrestled for a minute violently, as with something in the air; and
recovering as from a spasm, calmly added,
"Ay, murder for the money."
"I--I!" gasped Roger; "I did no murder, Muster Jennings!"
A new light seemed to break upon the bailiff, and he answered with a
tone of fixed determination,
"Acton, you are the murderer of Bridget Quarles.
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