“Listen, then! That fellow deserves to go to prison. He might be sent to the village inn. But, my friend, he must not be allowed to spend so much as one night under your roof. To let him do so would be an act of insanity.” “But why?” “For more reasons than one. In the first place, he is the fraudulent claimant of your name and estate, though his claim will not bear an instant of light, a ray of truth, let in upon it; yet your allowing him to remain in the house to which he came as its pretended master, would seem, to him at least, to be giving some color to his pretensions. Do you see?” “I see what you mean, but I am not afraid of anything he, poor wretch, may think or say or do. Is there any other reason why he should not be sheltered here?” “Yes—not so strong a reason, to be sure; but a most decent one.” “Well?” “He is a bigamist. He came here bringing a cruelly deceived, falsely married woman, who was never, therefore, wife or bride. She, not ‘Mrs.’ anybody, but Miss Legg, is here in your house under the charge of her parents, who are your guests. Therefore it would be unseemly—to use the mildest term—for him to remain under the same roof. Do you see now?” “Oh, yes, I see. How oblique one’s vision is at times, however. Well, Mr. Campbell, you have told me what I must not do with him; will you now tell me what I may?” “Certainly. If your merciful spirit shrinks from passing him over into the hands of the law, you can have him put into a carriage and taken to the village inn—‘The Red Fox,’ Giles Scroggins, host.” “I will do so, and hold myself responsible for his expenses there,” said Randolph Hay. And then both men looked toward the divan in the front bay window, on which lolled Gentleman Geff, very drunk and getting drunker every instant, for he now had the big flask turned up to his mouth, with his head thrown so far back that he was evidently draining the last drop of its contents. When he had done so, he made a futile attempt to restore the empty flask to his pocket, but instead let it fall to the floor, while he dropped back into his lolling position. It was at this moment that Clay Legg strode into the drawing-room, fresh from his humiliating interview with his father, smarting under the disclosure of his sister’s dishonor. He strode past all the guests in his way, and straight up to the side of his late friend and patron, Gentleman Geff, struck his hand heavily on the drunkard’s shoulder, shook him roughly and said: “Do you know, you brute! you devil! what is before you?” Gentleman Geff opened his heavy red eyes and stared in a deep stupor, through which fury began to kindle slowly, like flame from under a thick smoke. “Answer me, you beast!” demanded Legg, with another and rougher shake of the wretch under his grasp. “Do you know what is before you?” “No! nor care!” roared the madman, with a perfect stream of profanity and obscenity.