"It has only complicated the affair," he said, as he watched the steamers up and down, "this calling in Green the detective, and the news he brings. Gordon the Gordon of the mutiny! I don't like it: the other Gordon, simple enough and not bad-hearted, was easy to deal with in comparison; this man, pirate, robber, murderer, will stand at nothing. We should have a hold on him, it's true, in his own crime; but what's to prevent his keeping himself out of the way, and selling Hartledon to another? Why he has not sold him yet, I can't think. Unless for some reason he is waiting his time." He put on his hat and began to count the barges on the other side, to banish thought. But it would not be banished, and he fell into the train again. "Mair's behaving well; with Christian kindness; but it's bad enough to be even in _his_ power. There's something in Lord Hartledon he 'can't help loving,' he writes. Who can? Here am I, giving up circuit--such a thing as never was heard of--calling him friend still, and losing my rest at night for him! Poor Val! better he had been the one to die!" "Please, sir, could you tell us the time?" The spell was broken, and Mr. Carr took out his watch as he turned his eyes on a ragged urchin who had called to him from below. The tide was down; and sundry Arabs were regaling their naked feet in the mud, sporting and shouting. The evening drew in earlier than they did, and the sun had already set. Quitting the garden, Mr. Carr stepped into a hansom, and was conveyed to Grafton Street. He found Lord Hartledon knitting his brow over a letter. "Maude is growing vexed in earnest," he began, looking up at Mr. Carr. "She insists upon knowing the reason that I do not go home to her." "I don't wonder at it. You ought to do one of two things: go, or--" "Or what, Carr?" "You know. Never go home again." "I wish I was out of the world!" cried the unhappy man. CHAPTER XXV. AT HARTLEDON. "Hartledon, "I wonder what you _think_ of yourself, Galloping about _Rotten Row_ with women when your wife's _dying_. Of _course_ it's not your fault that reports of your goings-on _reach_ her here oh dear no. You are a moddel husband you are, sending her down here _out of the way_ that you may take your pleasure. Why did you _marry her_, nobody wanted you to she sits and _mopes_ and _weeps_ and she's going into the same way that her father _went_, you'll be glad no doubt to hear it it's what you're _aiming_ at, once she is in _Calne churchyard_ the _field_ will be open for your Anne Ashton. I can tell you that if you've a spark of _proper feeling_ you'll come _down_ for its killing her, "Your wicked mother, "C. Kirton." Lord Hartledon turned this letter about in his hand. He scarcely noticed the mistake at the conclusion: the dowager had doubtless intended to imply that _he_ was wicked, and the slip of the pen in her temper went for nothing. Galloping about Rotten Row with women!