Sir Harry, comparatively sober, no partisan of Hep-plestall’s, but certainly none of the vicar’s, saw the snatch and rose with a “Good God, has Bantison taken to picking pockets?” but there was, even at that demonstration, nothing like a sensation in the room; they were neutrally ready to acquiesce in picking pockets, in an outraged host, in anything. They were country gentlemen late in the evening. The snatch, ill-timed, had failed of its objective. Mr. Bantison clawed thin air in ludicrous perplexity and Hep-plestall, assured by Sir Harry’s gesture of his sympathy, took his opportunity. He rose, with his hand down Bantison’s neck, clutching cravat, coat, all that there was to clutch, and with a polite: “You permit?” and a bow to Whitworth, carried the parson one-handed to the window. Bantison choked speechlessly, imprecations and accusations alike smothered by the taut neck-band round his throat. Hepplestall opened the window, breathing heavily, lifted the writhing sinner and dropped him through it. “And that’s the end of him,” commented Sir Harry, more truly than he knew. “You’re in fine condition, sir. A glass of wine with you.” CHAPTER II--SMOKED HERRING THAT night ended, as the nights of such gatherings were wont to end, with some safely, others precariously horsed, others bundled unceremoniously by Sir Harry’s servants into coaches where their wives received them without disapproval, and the rest accommodated on the premises. The absence of Mr. Bantison escaped their notice. The Reverend and unregretted Bantison was absent from the leave-taking because he had already taken leave. Mr. Bantison was dead. To the sorrow of none, and the satisfaction of a few who had paid forced tribute to the observation of his eye, Mr. Bantison was dead. It was agreed at the breakfast table that he died of apoplexy and a very probable end too, though not strictly in accordance with the evidence. Apoplexy implies a spontaneity of termination, and Mr. Bantison’s end had lacked spontaneity.