At this moment my mother came into the library. “Thank goodness,” said Lalage, “we have some one at last who can talk sense.” My mother looked questioningly at me. I offered her an explanation of the position in the smallest possible number of words. “The Archdeacon,” I said, “is going to put Lalage and Hilda into prison for simony.” “He can’t,” said Lalage, “for we didn’t do it.” “They did,” I said, “both of them. They offered to present the Archdeacon corruptly to an ecclesiastical benefice for a reward.” “It wasn’t a reward.” “Lalage,” said my mother, “have you been meddling with this bishopric election?” “I simply tried,” said Lalage, “to find out whether he was properly qualified.” “You did more than that,” I said; “you tried to get a reward.” “If you take my advice----” said my mother. “I will,” said Lalage, “and so will Hilda.” That threatening statute of Queen Elizabeth’s must have frightened Lalage. I never before knew her so meek. “Then leave the question of the Archdeacon’s qualifications,” said my mother, “to those who have to elect him.” “Not to me,” I said hurriedly. “I couldn’t work through that list of Selby-Harrison’s. Try my uncle. Try Lord Thormanby. He’ll like it.” “There’s one thing----” said Lalage. “Leave it to the synod,” said my mother. “Or to Lord Thormanby,” I said. “Very well,” said Lalage. “I will. But perhaps he won’t care to go into it, and if he doesn’t I shall have to act myself.” “He will,” I said. “He has a perfectly tremendous sense of responsibility.” “And now,” said my mother, “come along, all of you, to the drawing-room and have tea.” “Is it all right?” said Hilda anxiously to me as we left the room. “Quite,” I said; “there’ll be no prosecution. My mother can do anything she likes with the Archdeacon, just as she does with Lalage. He’ll not enforce a single penalty.” “She’s wonderful,” said Hilda. I quite agreed. She is. Even Miss Pettigrew could not do as much. It was more by good luck than anything else that she succeeded in luring Lalage away from Ballygore. CHAPTER XIX I congratulated my mother that night on her success in dealing with Lalage. “Your combination,” I said, “of tact, firmness, sympathy, and reasonableness was most masterly.” My mother smiled gently. I somehow gathered from her way of smiling that she thought my congratulations premature. “Surely,” I said, “you don’t think she’ll break out again. She made you a definite promise.” “She’ll keep her promise to the letter,” said my mother, still smiling in the same way. “If she does,” I said, “she can’t do anything very bad.” It turned out--it always does--that my mother was right and I was wrong. The next morning at breakfast a note was handed to me by the footman. He said it had been brought over from Thormanby Park by a groom on horseback. It was marked “Urgent” in red ink.