Mark Ruthine slowly turned, still upon his knees. He rose, and in his dark face there was that strange eagerness again, like the eagerness of a sportsman approaching some unknown quarry in the jungle. “What do you mean, Mrs. Agar?” he asked. “I mean that he was born with a hatred for that man stronger than anything that was in him. His soul was given to him full of hate for Seymour Michael. Such things are when a woman bears a child in the midst of great passion.” “Yes,” said Mark Ruthine, “I know.” “The night he was born,” Mrs. Agar went on, “I first saw and spoke to that man after he had come back from India--after I had learnt what he had done.” Ruthine turned round towards Jem and Dora. “You hear that,” he said to them. “This is not the story of a mother trumped up in court to save her son. It is the truth. There are some things which we do not understand even yet. Don't forget what you have heard. It will come in usefully.” He turned to Mrs. Agar again. “Did he know the story?” he asked. “He never heard it until you told it just now.” “Can you swear to that, Mrs. Agar?” “Yes.” “Then,” said Ruthine, “he does not know now that you are the woman whom Seymour Michael wronged. He need never know it. The paroxysm had come on before you spoke--that was why I shouted. He was mad with hate, before you opened your lips.” Mrs. Agar was now beginning to realise what was at stake. The mother's love was re-awakening. The old cunning look came into her eyes, and her quick, truthless mind was evidently on the alert. There was something animal-like in Mrs. Agar; but she was of the lower order of animal, that seeks to defend its young by cunning and not by sheer bravery. Ruthine must have guessed at something, for he said at once: “Remember what you have told me. You will have to repeat that exactly. Add nothing to it, take nothing from it, or you will spoil it. Tell me, has your son seen this man more than once?” “No, only once; at Cambridge.” “All right; I think I shall be able to prove it.” As he spoke he went towards the writing-table and, sitting down, he wrote out a prescription. Dora followed him and held out her hand for the paper. “Send for that at once, please,” he said. Then he beckoned to Jem. “I have sent for the local doctor,” he said to him. “But I should advise having some one else--Llandoller from Harley Street. This is far above our heads.” “Telegraph for him,” answered Jem Agar. While Ruthine wrote he went on speaking. “We must get him upstairs at once,” he said. “I should like to have him in bed before the doctor comes.” In answer to the bell, rung a second time, the servant came, looking white and scared. “Show Dr. Ruthine Mr. Arthur's room,” said Jem; and Ruthine took Arthur up in his arms like a child.