"At their own," came the answer in a whisper.

"Ay," said Mr. Rogers, "at their own request. You--not being a priest at all, or in orders, but a swindler with a forged licence-- married that lady at her own request."

"Is that true?" the Rector demanded.

The poor wretch made as if to crawl towards him, to clasp his knees again. "Mercy!" he whined, between two sobs.

"One moment," Mr. Rogers insisted, as the Rector held up a hand.

"Did young Plinlimmon know of the fraud?"

"No."

"Does he know now?"

"No."

"Thank the Lord for that small mercy! For, by the Lord, I'd have shot him without grace to say his prayers."

"Mr. Rogers!" Again the Rector lifted a reproving hand.

"You don't understand, sir. For this marriage--which isn't a marriage--Isabel Brooks gave the door to an honest man. He may be a bit of a fool, sir: but since she wasn't for him, he prayed she might find a better fellow. That's sound Christianity, hey? I can tell you it came tough enough. And now--" He swung round upon Whitmore.

"Did this man Letcher know?" he demanded.

"He did, Mr. Rogers. Oh, if you only knew what agonies of mind--"

"Stow your agonies of mind. We'll begin with those you've caused.

What was Letcher's game?"

"His right name is Leicester, sir. He is Mr. Plinlimmon's cousin --or second cousin, rather--though Mr. Plinlimmon don't know it."

Mr. Whitmore, with his gloss rubbed off, was fast returning to his native style even in speech. You could as little mistake him now for a gentleman as for a priest.

"And how does that bear on your pretty plot?"

"I will tell you, gentlemen: for when George Leicester forced me to it--and it was only under threats so terrible that you would hardly believe--"

"In other words, he knew enough to hang you."

"It was terrorism, gentlemen: I was his slave, body and soul.

But when he came and proposed this, and never told me what he was to get by it--for the plan was all his, and I stood to win nothing, absolutely nothing--I determined to find out for myself, thinking (you see) that by getting at his secret I might put myself on level terms."

"You mean, that you might discover enough to hang _him_. I hope you succeeded."

"To this extent, Mr. Rogers--George Leicester and Archibald Plinlimmon's mother were first cousins. There were three Leicesters to begin with, as you might say--Sir Charles, who was head of the family and is living yet, though close on eighty, and two younger brothers, Archibald and Randall, both dead. Sir Charles was a bachelor, and for years his brothers lived with him in a sort of dependence. Towards middle-age they both married--I was told, by his orders--and near about at the same time. At any rate each married and each had a child--Archibald a daughter and Randall a son.

Archibald's daughter--he died two years after her birth--was brought up by her uncle, Sir Charles, who made a pet of her; but she spoilt her prospects by marrying a poor soldier, Captain Plinlimmon.

She ran away with him. And the old man would never speak to her again, nor see her, but cut her out of his will."

"I see. And she--this daughter of Archibald Leicester--was Archibald's Plinlimmon's mother. Is she living?"

"Mrs. Plinlimmon died some years ago," I put in.

"Hey? What do _you_ know about all this?" asked Mr. Rogers.

"A little, sir," I answered.

"But what little you know--does it bear this man's story out?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's as well to have some check on it, for I'd trust him just so far as I could fling him by the eyebrows."

"There was no profit for me in this business, Mr. Rogers," protested Whitmore. "I'm telling you the truth, sir!" And indeed the poor rogue, having for the moment another's sins to confess, rattled on with his story almost glibly. "As I was saying, sir, the old man cut her out of his will: and not only this, but had a Bible fetched and took his oath upon it that no child of hers should ever touch a penny of his money. Be so good as to bear that in mind, sir, for it's important."

"I see," Mr. Rogers nodded. "So that cuts out Master Archibald.

And the money, I suppose, went to her brother's child--the boy you spoke of?"

"Softly sir, for now we come to it. That boy--Randall Leicester's son--was George Leicester--the man who calls himself Letcher.

Randall Leicester lived long enough to have his heart broken by him.

He started in the Navy, with plenty of pocket-money, and better prospects; for Sir Charles turned all his affection over to him and meant to make him his heir. But--if you knew George Leicester, gentlemen, as I do! That man has a devil in him; and the devil showed himself early. First there was an ugly story about a woman--a planter's wife in one of the West India islands, where he was serving under Abercromby--Santa Lucia, I think, or it may have been St.

Vincent. They say that after getting her to run with him, he left her stranded and bolted back to the ship with his pockets full of her jewels. On top of that came a bad business at Naples--an affair of cards--which cost him his uniform. After that he disappeared, and for years his uncle has believed him to be dead."

"Then who gets the money?"

"There's the villainy, sir"--he spoke as if indeed he had taken no hand in it. "Sir Charles, you see, had vowed never to leave it to young Plinlimmon: but it seems he's persuaded himself that the oath doesn't apply to young Plinlimmon's children, should he marry and have children. To whom else should it go? 'Lawful heirs of his body': and if the inheritance is made void by b.a.s.t.a.r.dy, you see, he turns up as the legitimate heir and collars the best of the property."

"My G.o.d!" shouted Mr. Rogers, and would have leapt on him again had not the Rector, with wonderful agility for his years, flung himself between. "You dare to stand there and tell me that, to aid this devilry, you pushed a woman into shame--and that woman Isabel Brooks?"

"Mr. Rogers," the Rector implored, "control yourself! I know better than you--every man knows who has been a parish priest--what vileness a man can be guilty of to save his skin. Reserve your wrath for Leicester, but let this poor creature be--he has an awful expiation before him--and consider with me if the worst of this evil cannot be remedied." He turned to the curate. "You have the registers--the parish papers? Where are they? Here?"

Whitmore nodded towards a door in the corner.

"Is the licence for this marriage among them? Give me the key."

The curate seemed to search in his pocket for a moment; then jerked a hand towards the door, as if meaning that no key was necessary.

The Rector strode across to search.

"By G.o.d, it shall be remedied!" Mr. Rogers shouted. "Rector!"

The old man turned.

"Well?" he asked.

"You can marry them yet?"

"To be sure I can. And if the licence is in order, little time need be lost. Let me search for it."

"Man, there's no time to lose! The North Wilts Regiment sails to-morrow night for Portugal. I heard the news as I left Plymouth."

"If that's so," I put in, "Plinlimmon will be down at the cottage to-night, or to-morrow morning to say good-bye."