“You see, I knew the lad’s mother,” said Lord Chickney. “In fact—” He became insanely confidential—“Under happier circumstances—don’t misunderstand me, Moggeridge; I mean no evil—but he might have been my son. I feel for him like a son....” § 7 When presently Captain Douglas, a little heated from his engine trouble, came into the room—he had left Bealby with Candler in the hall—it was instantly manifest to him that the work of preparation had been inadequately performed. “One minute more, my dear Alan,” cried Lord Chickney. Lord Moggeridge with eyebrows waving and watch in hand was of a different opinion. He addressed himself to Captain Douglas. “There _isn’t_ a minute more,” he said. “What is all this—this philoprogenitive rigmarole about? Why have you come to me? My cab is outside _now_. All this about ladies and witnesses;—what _is_ it?” “Perfectly simple, my lord! You imagine that I played practical jokes upon you at Shonts. I didn’t. I have a witness. The attack upon you downstairs, the noise in your room—” “Have I any guarantee—?” “It’s the steward’s boy from Shonts. Your man outside knows him. Saw him in the steward’s room. He made the trouble for you—and me, and then he ran away. Just caught him. Not exchanged thirty words with him. Half a dozen questions. Settle everything. Then you’ll know—nothing for you but the utmost respect.” Lord Moggeridge pressed his lips together and resisted conviction. “In consideration,” interpolated Lord Chickney, “feelings of an old fellow. Old soldier. Boy means no harm.” With the rudeness of one sorely tried the Lord Chancellor thrust the old general aside. “Oh!” he said, “Oh!” and then to Captain Douglas. “One minute. Where’s your witness?...” The Captain opened a door. Bealby found himself bundled into the presence of two celebrated men. “Tell him,” said Captain Douglas. “And look sharp about it.” “Tell me plainly,” cried the Lord Chancellor, “and be—_quick_.” He put such a point on “quick” that it made Bealby jump. “Tell him,” said the general more gently. “Don’t be afraid.” “Well,” began Bealby after one accumulating pause, “it was ’im told me to do it. ’E said you go in there—” The Captain would have interrupted but the Lord Chancellor restrained him by a magnificent gesture of the hand holding the watch. “He told you to do it!” he said. “I knew he did. Now listen! He told you practically to go in and do anything you could.” “Yessir.” Woe took possession of Bealby. “I didn’t do any ’arm to the ole gentleman.” “But _who_ told you?” cried the Captain. “_Who_ told you?” Lord Moggeridge annihilated him with arm and eyebrows. He held Bealby fascinated by a pointing finger. “Don’t do more than answer the questions. I have thirty seconds more. He told you to go in. He _made_ you go in. At the earliest possible opportunity you got away?” “I jest nipped out—”