“You think, perhaps,” said Bulstrode, laughing wickedly, “that I am afraid Mr. Skelton will hear--” Bulstrode had not seen Skelton, and thought him altogether out of earshot. “But, to use a very trifling standard of value, madam, I don’t at this moment care a twopenny damn whether Skelton hears me or not! The money ought to be yours one day, and it will be--” As he spoke, there was Skelton at his elbow. Skelton’s black eyes were simply blazing. He looked ready to fell Bulstrode with one blow of his sinewy arm. His first glance--a fearful one--seemed to sober Bulstrode instantly. The music was still crashing melodiously in the hall; the warm, perfumed air from the long greenhouse with its wide-open doors floated in; the yellow light from a group of wax candles in a sconce fell upon them. Skelton said not a word as he fixed his eyes wrathfully on Bulstrode, but Bulstrode seemed actually to wither under that look of concentrated rage. “Skelton,” said Bulstrode in an agony, the drops appearing upon his broad forehead, “I have violated no promise.” He stopped, feeling the weakness of the subterfuge. “I would scarcely exact a promise from one so incapable of keeping one,” answered Skelton in calm and modulated tones. He had but one wish then, and that was to get Mrs. Blair out of the way that he might work his will on Bulstrode. The restraint of her presence infuriated him, the more when she said, in trembling tones: “Pray, forgive him; he was imprudent, but the secret is safe with us.” “With us!” Then Blair knew as well. “I have no secret, Mrs. Blair,” answered Skelton with indomitable coolness. “What this--person told you is no secret. As it is very remote, and as there are chances of which Bulstrode himself does not take into account, I thought it useless to inform you. But, if you desire, I will, to-morrow morning, explain the whole thing to you and your husband.” “Pray--pray, do not!” cried Elizabeth. Skelton bowed, and said: “As you please. But rest assured that, although I never volunteered the information as this man has, yet I stand ready to answer all questions from those who are authorised to ask them.” Bulstrode gazed helplessly from one to the other, strangely overcome. There was something inexpressibly appealing in the look; he feared that he had lost the regard of the only woman who had for him any tenderness of feeling, had revealed a stain upon the boy he loved better than any creature in the world, and had mortally offended the man upon whom he depended for bread. “Skelton,” he cried, almost in tears, “I told her when the ruin that you promised Jack Blair seemed to be accomplished; when she,” indicating Mrs. Blair, “was likely to be houseless and homeless; when her only son lay stretched upon his bed more dead than alive; when, I tell you, any man who had not a stone in his bosom for a heart would have felt for her; when I would have laid down my worthless life for her to have brought ease. Can you blame me?”