"Where you can't get at them, I say," was Lady Kirton's response. "You don't think I am going to suffer Maude's children to be domineered over by a wretch of a step-mother--perhaps poisoned." He confronted her in his wrath, his eyes flashing. "Madam!" "Oh, you need not 'Madam' me. Maude's gone, and I shall act for her." "I ask you where my children are?" "I have sent them away; you may make the most of the information. And when I have remained here as long as I choose, I shall take them with me, and keep them, and bring them up. You can at once decide what sum you will allow me for their education and maintenance: two maids, a tutor, a governess, clothes, toys, and pocket-money. It must be a handsome sum, paid quarterly in advance. And I mean to take a house in London for their accommodation, and shall expect you to pay the rent." The coolness with which this was delivered turned Val's angry feelings into amusement. He could not help laughing as he looked at her. "You cannot have my children, Lady Kirton." "They are Maude's children," snapped the dowager. "But I presume you admit that they are likewise mine. And I shall certainly not part with them." "If you oppose me in this, I'll put them into Chancery," cried the dowager. "I am their nearest relative, and have a right to them." "Nearest relative!" he repeated. "You must have lost your senses. I am their father." "And have you lived to see thirty, and never learnt that men don't count for anything in the bringing up of infants?" shrilly asked the dowager. "If they had ten fathers, what's that to the Lord Chancellor? No more than ten blocks of wood. What they want is a mother." "And I have now given them one." Without another word, with the red flush of emotion on his cheek, he went up to his wife's room. She was alone then, dressed, and just coming out of it. He put his arm round her to draw her in again, as he shortly explained the annoyance their visitor was causing him. "You must stay here, my dearest, until I can go down with you," he added. "She is in a vile humour, and I do not choose that you should encounter her, unprotected by me." "But where are you going, Val?" "Well, I really think I shall get a policeman in, and frighten her into saying what she has done with the children. She'll never tell unless forced into it." Anne laughed, and Hartledon went down. He had in good truth a great mind to see what the effect would be. The old woman was not a reasonable being, and he felt disposed to show her very little consideration. As he stood at the hall-door gazing forth, who should arrive but Thomas Carr. Not altogether by accident; he had come up exploring, to see if there were any signs of Val's return. "Ah! home at last, Hartledon!"