"You are a good man, sare bishop," he said. "I wish I was a good bishop, but I cannot. Life is a very terrible thing. I wish I could cut my throat. I am weary." "I should go to bed," said the bishop, "and I’ll look in and see you in the morning. Bed is the best place when one is weary. I assure you that I am not wholly ignorant of the world, or of the desire to cut my throat, but I find that after a good night’s rest the wish to do so evaporates, and one determines to live for another twelve hours at least. But before you go, I hope you will give me your word that you will cut no one else’s." "I give it," said Rivaulx. "The desire to kill Mr. Plant has left me. I am no longer furious, even with Bramber. I am simply sad and fearfully mournful. I thank you, sare; good night." "Good night," said the bishop. "Stay, marquis, I think Mr. Plant has the weapons." The marquis waved them off. "I have no need of them. I give them you, sare bishop. Take them." And when the bishop had bidden Plant and Bob good night, and had arranged to see Bob in the morning, the curious sight might have been witnessed of a great ornament of the Episcopal bench walking through the precincts of the cathedral to his palace, with a couple of duelling-swords under his arm. "This has been a very interesting evening," said the bishop. "I very much wonder what Ridley will think when he sees me come in. A butler’s mind is naturally limited." He went in and gave the swords to Ridley. "Take these," said his lordship. "Yes, m’lord," said Ridley, stolidly. "I think you can hang them up in the dining-room, Ridley." "Yes, m’lord." "They are trophies, Ridley." "So I perceive, m’lord," said Ridley. "What are trophies, Ridley?" "These, m’lord," said Ridley. "Exactly so," said his lordship. And while he was taking off his gaiters and thinking of Penelope, Bob was sitting on the edge of Gordon’s bed and telling him all about it. "Why are you here?" asked Bob. "She sent me a telegram," said poor Gordon. "I say, what about?" "Sayin’ I wath a noble character and so on," replied Gordon, miserably, "and I came here at onth becauth the telegram came from here." As the sleep went out of his eyes, he talked less Hebraically. "I thought she might be here," he added, shaking his curly head. Bob thought very hard. "I say, this is awfully mixed, Mr. Gordon, because I know you told granny you were married to Pen!" Gordon gulped something down. It was probably very bad language. "So—so I am," he said, sternly, without looking at Bob. "Rivaulx says so, too." "The devil!" cried Gordon. "And so does Goby and Rivaulx and Bramber and De Vere and all of ’em!" Gordon fell back on his pillows. "So you see," said Bob, "we’re no further than we were, except that Weekes, who used to be Pen’s maid, came to granny this afternoon and told her, the beast, that Pen had married Timothy Bunting!" Gordon bounced out of bed in his night-shirt.