A figure passed the open French windows along the path. Mr. Marrapit shouted “Fletcher!” The gardener entered. “But you've betrayed your trust,” George shouted. He liked the fine phrase and repeated it. “You've betrayed your trust!” Mr. Marrapit assumed his most collected air. “Silence. Silence, man of sin. Leave the house. Return thanks where thanks are due if I do not hound the law upon you. Take that girl. That miserable cat take. Hence!” Mary got to her feet, put a hand on her George's arm. “Do come, dear.” The wild young man shook her off. “I'll go when it pleases me!” he shouted at Mr. Marrapit. “You shall be arrested,” Mr. Marrapit returned. He addressed Mary. “Place that cat in that basket Carry it away.” George stood, heaving, panting, boiling for effective words, while his Mary did as bade. Awful visions of her George, fettered between policemen, trembled her pretty fingers. At last she had the basket strapped, raised it. “Come, George,” she said; and to Mr. Marrapit, “I'm so sorry, Mr. Marrapit. I--” It gave her furious George a vent. “Sorry! What are you sorry about? What have you done?” He roared over to Mrs. Major: “What other lies have you been telling?” He lashed himself at Mr. Marrapit. “Set the law on me? I jolly well hope you will. It will all come out then how you've behaved--how you've treated me. How you've betrayed--” “Fletcher,” Mr. Marrapit interrupted, “remove that man. Take him out. Thrust him from the house.” “Me?” said Mr. Fletcher. “Me thrust him? I'm a gardener, I am; not a--” “Duty or dismissal,” pronounced Mr. Marrapit. “Take choice.” He turned to the window. “Come, Mrs. Major.” George dashed for him. “You're not going till I've done with you!” Violence was in his tone, passion in his face. Alarmed, “Beware how you touch me!” called Mr. Marrapit; caught Mr. Fletcher, thrust him forward. “Grapple him!” cried Mr. Marrapit. Mr. Fletcher was violently impelled against George; to save a fall clutched him. “Don't make a scene, Mr. George,” he implored. George pushed him away. Mr. Fletcher trod back heavily upon Mr. Marrapit's foot. Mr. Marrapit screamed shrilly, plunged backwards into a cabinet, overturned it, sat heavily upon its debris. A laugh overcame George's fury. He swung on his heel; called “Come” to his Mary; stalked from the house. As they passed through the gate, “Oh, Georgie!” his Mary breathed. “Oh, Georgie!” He raged on to her: “What on earth made you say you were sorry? You've no spirit, Mary! No spirit!” The tremendous young man stalked ahead with huge strides. * * * * * In deep melancholy, sore beneath the correction Mr. Marrapit had heaped upon him, Mr. Fletcher wandered from the study; turned as he reached the path. “Me grapple him!” said Mr. Fletcher. “Me a craven! Me thrust him from the house! It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a Ju-jitsu.” CHAPTER VI. Agony In Meath Street. I.