The announcement was quite correct.  Sim Slee and his companions had broken away through the ceiling, dislodged the tiles, and escaped; and when the vicar reached home, he found Mrs Slee waiting up for him, trembling and pale, while her eyes were red with weeping.  She clung to him hysterically, and asked if the news was true, and that her husband was in prison.

“They came and told me the police had got him,” she sobbed.  “Ah, he’s a bad one sometimes, but he’s my maister, sir, he’s my maister.”

“He was taken, Mrs Slee,” said the vicar, “I’m sorry to say.  I was present.  You know I went out to-night, for I was in dread of some outrage; and after being about a time, I found that something was wrong, for the men were all waiting as in expectation.”

“He always would mix himself up with these troubles i’stead o’ wucking,” sobbed the poor woman.

“Fortunately I met two of the men I could trust, and found that an attempt was to be made to blow up the works.”

“Ah, but Sim wouldn’t do that, sir,” sobbed Mrs Slee.  “He dursen’t.”

“I’m sorry to say, Mrs Slee, that one of the policemen had watched him, and seen him help to carry a barrel of powder to the works.”

“Just like him ­just like him,” sobbed Mrs Slee; “but some one else was to fire it.”

“How did you know that?” said the vicar, sharply.

“I only know as he dursen’t hev done it hissen,” sobbed the poor woman.  “Poor lad, poor lad, there was nowt again him but the drink.”

“The men I met were in search of Daisy Banks,” continued the vicar; “and we joined hands with the police, who took your husband and that man from London, and afterwards we reached the works, and they are safe.”

“I’m strange and glad they’ve took that London man,” sobbed Mrs Slee; “but poor Sim!  Poor, poor Sim!  But I must go and say a word o’ comfort to him.  Smith, at station’s a good, kind man.”

“Who’ll ever say that woman is not faithful?” said the vicar to himself, as Mrs Slee hurried away to get her print hood, and, late as it was, to make her way to the station; but as she came back sobbing bitterly, he laid his hand upon her arm.

“You need not go, Mrs Slee; your husband and his confederate have escaped.”

“Escaped? got awaya?” cried Mrs Slee.

“Yes.”

“Gone out o’ the town?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then,” cried Mrs Slee, wiping her eyes with a hasty snatch or two of her apron, “I’m glad on it.  A bad villain, to go and try to do such a thing by the place as he made his bread by.  I hope to goodness he’ll niver come back,” she cried, in her old sharp vinegary tone.  “I hope I may niver set eyes upon him again.  Bud I don’t want him to go to prison.  Bud you’re not going out again to-night, sir?” she said, imploringly.

“I must go up to the House and see that all is well there, Mrs Slee,” he replied; “and call as I go and see how poor Banks is.”

“Bud is it true, sir, that Daisy has come back?”

“Yes,” said the vicar, sadly.  “Poor girl, she has returned.”

“Bud you wean’t go now, sir; it’s close upon two o’clock.”

“Lie down on the sofa, Mrs Slee.  I shall be able to wake you when I come back.”

“Theer niver was such a man,” muttered Mrs Slee, as she let him out; “and as for that Sim, well, I’m ommost sorry he did get away.”

As the vicar approached the foreman’s cottage he saw some one cross the lighted window, and on getting nearer he recognised the figure.

“Is that you, Podmore?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, sir, yes,” was the reply.  “I only thought I’d like to know how poor Joe Banks is getting on.”

“I’m going in, and if you’ll wait I’ll tell you.”

“Thank ye, sir, kindly,” said the young man.  “I will wait.”

“Poor fellow!” thought the vicar, with a sigh; “even now, when she comes back stained and hopeless to the old home, his love clings to her still.  It’s a strange thing this love!  Shall she then, and in spite of all, find that I cannot root up a foolish hopeless passion that makes me weak ­weak even as that poor fellow there?”

A low knock brought Daisy to the door, and on entering, it was to find Mrs Banks on her knees by her husband, who seemed in a heavy sleep.  The doctor had been again, and had only left half-an-hour before.

“He says there’s nowt to fear, sir,” whispered Mrs Banks; “but, oh, sir, will he live?”

“We are in His hands, Mrs Banks,” was the reply.  “I hope and pray he may.”

Daisy was looking on with dilated eyes, and pale, drawn face, and as, after some little time, during which he had sought with homely, friendly words to comfort the trembling wife, he rose to go, Daisy approached to let him out, when fancying that he shrank from her, the poor girl’s face became convulsed, and she tried hard but could not stifle a low wail.

She opened the door as he kindly said “Good night;” but as the faint light shone out across the garden and on to the low hedge, Daisy caught him by the arm.

“Don’t go, sir,” she whispered, in a frightened voice; “it mayn’t be safe.  Look:  there’s a man watching you.”

“You are unnerved,” he said, kindly; and then without thinking ­“It is only Podmore; he was waiting as I came in.”

“Tom!” the poor gill ejaculated, catching his arm, “is it Tom?  Oh, sir, for the love of God, tell him I’m not the wicked girl he thinks.”

“My poor girl!”

“I was very wicked and weak, sir, in behaving as I did; but tell him ­I must speak now ­tell him it was Mrs Glaire sent me away.”

“Mrs Glaire sent you away?” exclaimed the vicar.

“Yes, yes, yes,” sobbed Daisy; “so that ­her son ­”

“To get you away from Richard Glaire?”

“Yes, sir; yes.  I wish ­I wish I’d never seen him.”

“How came you at the foundry to-night?” he said sharply.

“I went to tell him of the danger, sir.  I went to the House first, and they told me he was there.  I hate him, I hate him,” she cried, passionately, heedless of the apparent incongruity of her words, “and everybody thinks me wicked and bad.”

“Is this true, Daisy Banks?” exclaimed the vicar.

“She couldn’t tell a lie, sir,” cried a hoarse voice.  “Daisy, my poor bairn, I don’t think it no more.”

“Tom!” sobbed Daisy, with an hysterical cry; and the next moment she was sobbing on his breast, while the vicar softly withdrew, to turn, however, when he was fifty yards away, and see that the cottage door opened, and that two figures entered together before it was closed.

“Thank God!” he said softly ­“thank God!”

Lights were burning at the House as he reached the door, and, under the circumstances, he knocked and was admitted by the white-faced, trembling servant, who had been sitting with one of the policemen in the hall, the other guarding the works.

“Don’t be alarmed, my girl, there is no bad news,” he said; and with a sigh of relief the girl showed him in to where Richard, Eve, and Mrs Glaire were seated, all watchful, pale, and ready to take alarm at the least sound.

“I’m glad you have come, Mr Selwood,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire; while Richard gave him a sulky nod, Eve trying to rise, but sinking back trembling.

“I should have been here sooner,” he said, “but I have had much to do.”

“Is there any fresh danger?”

“None whatever,” said the vicar.  “I think the storm is over ­I hope for good.”

Mrs Glaire gave a sigh of relief, and then wondered, as she saw the vicar cross the room; but the next minute a faint flush came into her pale cheeks, and she tottered to where Eve was sitting, and buried her face on her shoulder.

“Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, firmly, as he nerved himself for what he had to say, determined, as he was, to leave nothing undone in what he looked upon as his duty ­“Mr Glaire, I have done you a grievous wrong; I humbly ask your pardon.”

“What do you mean?” said Richard, starting, and wondering, with his customary distrust in human nature, whether it was some trap.

“I mean that, in common with others, I believed you guilty of inveigling Daisy Banks away.”

“It don’t matter to me what people think,” said Richard, roughly.

“I am sorry I misjudged you,” continued the vicar; “and once more I ask your pardon.”

“It don’t matter,” said Richard.

“Mrs Glaire,” the vicar continued, kindly, as he drew a chair to her side and took her hand, “you did a foolish, cruel thing in this.”

“Then you know all?” she sobbed.

“Yes, all ­from the lips of Daisy herself.  I will not blame you, though, for the act has recoiled upon yourself, and it is only by great mercy that, embittered as these men were through it, a horrible crime has not been committed.”

“I did it ­I did it to save him,” sobbed Mrs Glaire.  “I am a mother, and he is my only boy.”

“Poor, stricken Banks is a father, and Daisy is his only child.  Mrs Glaire, you did him a cruel wrong.  Why did you not trust me?”

“I was mad and foolish,” she sobbed.  “I dared not trust any one, even Daisy; and I thought it would be best for all ­that it would save her, and it has been all in vain.  Look at him,” she cried angrily; “after all, he defies me, insults his cousin’s love, and, when the poor, foolish girl comes back, his first act is to seek her, to the forgetting of his every promise to us both.”

Eve had covered her face with her hands.

“Daisy is as bad as he,” continued Mrs Glaire, angrily.

“There you are mistaken,” said the vicar; “her act to-night was to warn your son of his dreadful danger.  She went to save him from a terrible death.”

“Pray say no more,” said Mrs Glaire, shuddering; and Richard turned of a sallow yellow.

“It has been a terrible affair,” said the vicar; “but I sincerely hope that all is over, for your act has borne fruits, Mrs Glaire, and Daisy has seen the folly of the past.”

Richard looked up wonderingly, but refused to meet their visitor’s eye.

“I have spoken hastily, and I owe you an apology, Miss Pelly,” continued the vicar, rising; “but it was better to be plain even before you.  I was only too glad, though, to come and apologise to Mr Glaire for the wrong I had done.”

“But poor Joe Banks?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“He seems to have been struck down by an apoplectic fit.  He was shocked, no doubt, at finding that so dastardly an attempt had been made, and at the sight of your son and his child in such imminent peril.  I hope, however, and sincerely believe, that he will recover.  I have just come from there.  Good night.”

He pressed Mrs Glaire’s hand, and held that of Eve for a few moments, saying to himself, “Poor girl, I have lightened her heart of some of its load.  I have somewhat cleared the man she loves.”

“Good night, Mr Glaire,” he said, turning to Richard.

“I’ll see you out,” said Richard; and he followed him to the now vacant hall.

“What did you mean,” he said, roughly, “about Daisy?”

“I mean,” said the vicar, laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, “that she has awakened to the folly and weakness of her dealings with you, sir, and to the truth, honesty, and faith of the man who has loved her for so long.”

“Podmore?” hissed Richard.

“Yes, Podmore.  Now, Mr Glaire, your course is open.”

“What do you mean?” cried Richard, angrily.

“Act as a man of honour.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“And all will be forgiven.  Good night.”

“Curse him!” cried Richard, with an impatient stamp; and he stood gnawing his fair moustache.  Then, with a smile of triumph, damped by a hasty glance of fear up and down the street, he hurriedly closed the door.