“I am glad that it is no worse,” Sir Robert said gravely. “Very glad!” Now it was over he had to bite his lower lip to repress its trembling. “You feel better, sir, now?” the servant asked, addressing Vaughan. “Yes, yes,” Vaughan said. But after that he was silent, thinking. And Sir Robert was silent, too. The soldiers were withdrawing; the constables, outraged and indignant, were following them, declaring aloud that they were betrayed. And for certain the walls of the Cathedral had looked down on few stranger scenes, even in those troubled days when the crosslets of the Berkeleys first shone from their casements. Vaughan thought of the thing which had happened; and what was he to say? The position was turned upside down. The obligation was on the wrong person; the boot was on the wrong foot. If he, the young, the strong, and the injured, had saved Sir Robert, that had been well enough. But this? It required some magnanimity to take it gracefully, to bear it with dignity. “I owe you sincere thanks,” he said at last, but awkwardly and with constraint. “The blackguard!” Sir Robert cried. “You saved me, sir, from a very serious injury.” “It was as much threat as blow!” Sir Robert rejoined. “I don’t think so,” Vaughan answered. And then he was silent, finding it hard to say more. But after a pause, “I can only make you one return,” he said with an effort. “Perhaps you will believe me when I say, that upon my honour I do not know where your daughter is. I have neither spoken to her nor communicated with her since I saw her in Queen’s Square in May. And I know nothing of Lady Sybil.” “I am obliged to you,” Sir Robert said. “If you believe me,” Vaughan said. “Not otherwise!” “I do believe you, Mr. Vaughan.” And Sir Robert said it as if he meant it. “Then that is something gained,” Vaughan answered, “besides the soundness of my head.” Try as he might he felt the position irksome, and was glad to seek refuge in flippancy. Sir Robert removed his hat, and stood in perplexity. “But where can she be then?” he asked. “If you know nothing of her.” Vaughan paused before he answered. Then “I think I should look for her in Queen’s Square,” he suggested. “In that neighbourhood neither life nor property will be safe until Bristol comes to its senses. She should be removed, therefore, if she be there.” “I will take your advice and try the house again,” Sir Robert answered. “I think you are right, and I am much obliged to you.” He put his hat on his head, but removed it to salute his cousin. “Thank you,” he repeated, “I am much obliged to you.” And he departed slowly across the court. Halfway to the entrance, he paused, and fingered his chin. He went on again—again he paused. He took a step or two, turned, hesitated. At last he came slowly back. “Perhaps you will go with me?” he asked. “You are very good,” Vaughan answered, his voice shaking a little. Was it possible that Sir Robert meant more than he said? It did seem possible.