"I mean," answered Alf, "as I keep her out of prison by keepin me mouth shut." He dropped his voice. "And that ain't all. She's at it again ... Her home's a knockin-shop.... All the young men.... The police ought to interfere.... I shall tell the Archdeacon.... A kept woman.... That chap Burt.... That's how Ern makes good.... She makes the money he spends at the _Star_.... And your grand-children brought up in that atmosphere!" He struck the table. "But I'm her landlord all the same; and I'll make her know it yet." Anne Caspar was genuinely disturbed not for the sake of Ruth, but for that of the children. "You could never turn her out!" she said--"not your own sister-in-law and four children! Look so bad and all--and you a sidesman too." Alf snorted. "Ah, couldn't I?" he said. "You never know what a man can do till he tries." That evening the Colonel and Mrs. Lewknor walked over to the Manor-house to discuss Ern's latest misadventure. They found Mr. Pigott there clearly on the same errand; but the old Nonconformist rose to go with faintly exaggerated dignity on seeing his would-be enemy. "There's only one thing'll save him now," he announced in his most dogmatic style. "What's that?" asked Mrs. Trupp. "H'a h'earthquake," the other answered. When the Colonel and his wife left the Manor-house half-an-hour later there were three people walking abreast down the hill before them, just as there had been on a previous occasion. Now, as then, the centre of the three was Ruth. Now, as then, on her left was Joe. But on her right instead of Ern was little Alice. The Colonel pointed to the three. "I'll back Caspar all the way," said Mrs. Lewknor firmly. "Myself," replied the Colonel shrewdly, "I'll back the winner." Then he paused to read a placard which gave the latest news of the Ulster campaign. PART II TROUBLED DAWN CHAPTER XXII THE BETRAYAL The Ulster Campaign was moving forward now with something of the shabby and theatrical pomp of a travelling circus parading the outskirts of a sea-side town before a performance. A dromedary with an elongated upper lip, draped in the dirty trappings of a pseudo-Oriental satrap, led the procession, savage and sulking. Behind the dromedary came the mouldy elephant, the mangy bear, the fat woman exposing herself in tights on a gilt-edged Roman chariot, the sham cow-boys with gaudy cummerbunds, and Cockney accents, on untamed bronchos hired from the local livery stables, the horse that was alleged to have won the Derby in a by-gone century, etc. And the spectators gaped on the pavement, uncertain whether to jeer or to applaud.