On one of these occasions, a little more than a year after the party at his house, Mr Tankardew was present, having made an unusually early call. Mark wished him gone, and when the music lesson was over, and Mr Randolph had retired, hoped that the old man would take his leave; but nothing seemed farther from that gentleman's thoughts, so that Mark was obliged to bottle up his wrath (the only spirit, alas! That he ever did bottle up), and to leave Mr Tankardew in possession. When he was gone, the old man looked keenly at mother and daughter. Mrs Franklin coloured and sighed. Mary turned very red and then very pale, and took an earnest passing interest in the pattern of the hearthrug. "A very musical young gentleman, Mr Mark Rothwell," said their visitor dryly. "I wish he'd breathe as much harmony into his home as he breathes melody out of his flute." Neither mother nor daughter spoke, but Mary's heart beat very fast. "Hem! I see," continued the other, "you don't believe it! Only slander, malice, lies. Well, take my word for it, the love that comes out of the brandy flask will never get into the teapot. I wish you both a very good morning; ay, better one than this, a great deal;" and with a sternness of manner quite unusual, the old man took his leave. "How cruel! How unjust!" exclaimed Mary, when Mr Tankardew was gone. "Poor Mark! Every one strikes at him." But _was_ it cruel? _was_ it unjust? Let us go with Mark Rothwell himself, as he leaves his house that very night, sneaking out at the backdoor like a felon. A few hundred yards to the rear of the outbuildings stood a neat and roomy cottage; this was occupied by John Gubbins, the coachman, a man bound to Mark by unlimited donations of beer, and equally bound to a gang of swindlers who had floated their way to his pocket and privacy on the waves of strong drink. John had been gambling with these men, and had of course lost his money to them, and somebody else's too: the hard- earned savings of one of the maids who had trusted him to put them in the bank: of course he meant to repay them, with interest; that is to say, when the luck turned in his favour; but luck, like fortune, is blind, and tramples on those who court her most. It was very dark outside, as Mark groped his way along; but a muffled light showed him where the cottage window was. Three times he gave a long, low whistle, and then knocked four distinct raps on the door, which was cautiously opened by a man with a profusion of hair, beard and whiskers, which looked as though they did not belong to him, as was probably the case, not only with his hair, but with everything else that he wore, including some tarnished ornaments. "All right, sir, come in," he said, and Mark entered.