But to go to Unity Street was one thing, and to gain speech with Brereton was another. He had gone to bed. He was asleep. He was not well. He was worn out and was resting. The seekers, with the roar of the fire in their ears and ruin staring them in the face, heard these incredible things, and went away, swearing profanely. Nor did anyone, it would seem, gain speech with him, until the small hours were well advanced. Then Arthur Vaughan, unable to abide by the vow he had taken not to importune him, arrived, he, too, furious, at the door, and found a knot of gentlemen clamouring for admission. Vaughan had parted from Sir Robert Vermuyden some hours earlier, believing that, bad as things were, he might make head against the rioters, if he could rally his constables. But he had found no one willing to act without the soldiery; and he was here in the last resort, determined to compel Colonel Brereton to move, if it were by main force. For Vaughan had the law-keeping instincts of an Englishman and his blood boiled at the sights he had seen in the streets, at the wanton destruction of property, at the jeopardy of life, at the women made homeless, at the men made paupers. Nor was it quite out of his thoughts that if anything could harm the cause of Reform it was these deeds done in its name, these outrages fulfilling to the letter the worst which its enemies had predicted of it! He spoke a few words to the persons who, angry and nonplussed, were wrangling at the door, then he pushed his way in, deaf to the remonstrances of the woman of the house. He did not believe, he could not believe the excuse given—that Brereton was in bed. Nero, fiddling while Rome burned, seemed nought beside that! And his surprise was great when, opening the sitting-room door, he saw before him only the Honourable Bob; who, standing on the hearth-rug, met his indignant look with one of forced and sickly amusement. “Good Heavens!” Vaughan cried, staring at him. “What are you doing here? Where’s the Chief?” Flixton shrugged his shoulders. “There,” he said irritably, “it’s no use blaming me! Man alive, if he won’t, he won’t! And it’s his business, not mine!” “Then I’d make it mine!” Vaughan retorted. “Where is he?” Flixton flicked his thumb in the direction of an inner door. “He’s there,” he said. “He’s there safe enough! For the rest, it is easy to find fault! Very easy for you, my lad! You’re no longer in the service.” “There are a good many will leave the service for this!” Vaughan replied; and he saw on the instant that the shot told. Flixton’s face fell, he opened his mouth to reply. But disdaining to listen to excuses, of which the speaker’s manner betrayed the shallowness, Vaughan opened the bedroom door and passed in.