“Your kinsman is as innocent as a child, sir,” he said; “the blame is mine. I offer you my apologies for causing such a scene. You can find me at Rodenham if you think fit.” Wilson, looking quite the fine gentleman for once, bowed to Mr. Lancelot, and, elbowing the grinning toadies aside, strode towards the door with his shoulders squared. Richard, still hopelessly befogged, stared at his cousin, and then followed the painter. The Lady Letitia was sailing down the room, the light of battle in her eyes. She called her nephew to her and commanded him to give her his arm. “It is time that we followed Mr. Wilson,” she said, with a fierce glare at Mr. Lot. “I have no wish to stay longer in this house to be insulted.” Lot followed the dowager and Richard towards the door. “You’ll hear from me, cousin,” he said. “I am at your service, sir,” quoth Richard. Lot, his red face still aflame, turned back to meet his father. The baronet was taking snuff with great asperity. He glared at his son, and spoke to him in an angry whisper. “What devil’s mess have you been brewing here, sir?” Mr. Lancelot’s blue eyes flashed. “Dick Wilson, the painter fellow, was here,” he said. “Dick Wilson!” “That old beldam brought him with her from Rodenham. Jill fainted when she saw the fellow. Damme, sir, I will have it out with Cousin Richard. I can’t fight the old she-dog or the oilman, but I can fight Richard.” Sir Peter whistled softly, puffing out his fat, red cheeks. “Good Lord, Lot,” he said, “here’s a pretty ending to our party. Damn the old woman. Egad, you’d better get Jilian to bed.” “And to-morrow,” quoth Mr. Lot, savagely, “I will talk with Cousin Richard.” XII An almost sanctified silence descended upon the interior of the Rodenham coach as the cumbrous carriage lumbered and creaked homeward over the heath that night. It was as though the three inmates travelled half in awe of one another, and were afraid to grapple with the mystery of the situation. The Lady Letitia sat stiffly in her corner, a statuesque and repellent figure in the dusk, while Richard Wilson, feeling very miserable and foolish, remained bolt upright, his knees and toes together, his round face still glistening with sweat. Jeffray lay back against the cushions, staring at the painter with obfuscated curiosity, and trying to explain to himself Miss Hardacre’s fainting fit and Cousin Lot’s savage attack on Wilson in the hall. First a few irrelevant remarks passed between the three as the coach rolled on under the stars through the desolate wastes of Pevensel. The road was heavy, and the horses tugged and strained at the traces, the coach rolling on its high springs. They could hear the man-servant’s toes knocking against the panelling as he sat perched on the back seat and clung to the rail as the wheels plunged and bumped into the ruts.