A gleam lit the watery depths of Sir Arthur’s eyes. "Here is a house of sorrow." He was suddenly reminded of what, in the absorption of his own misery, he had well-nigh forgotten—that the woman lay in danger of death. Were she to die now—who had committed this inconceivable indiscretion—the situation might yet be saved. If she were to die, the affair could be hushed up. He jumped to his feet. "Well, and what do you think of her state, doctor?" cried he. The greedy glance was a revelation. The whole mind of the man was laid bare in its odious pettiness. With a dignified gesture the physician refused answer. But the soul of Harry English leaped forth in wrath, as the blade leaps from the scabbard. "Out of my house!" said he, his arm flung wide, pointing to the door. Voice, gesture, look, spoke of a passion so intense that for a second Sir Arthur quailed before it as one may before an unexpected flash of lightning. He retreated hurriedly a few steps, then wheeled round, his natural combativeness reasserting itself. "Your story is strange, singularly strange, Captain English," he sneered. "I shall consider it my duty to report it in proper quarters without delay. You will have to produce some better explanations there, sir, I fancy, than those which seem to satisfy a couple of silly women and an ignorant foreigner—I mean," his old habit of courtesy tugging against the impulsiveness of his irritation—"I mean a foreigner ignorant of our customs." (M. Châtelard had an indulgent smile for the correction.) "I shall report you, sir, and your accomplice there." A withering look included the stolid Bethune in this last indictment. "Raymond, see that he goes," said English, "that he goes at once—and quietly." "Ah, yes, I beg," interposed the doctor, with gravity. "Quiet is imperative, Sir Gerardine." English walked over to the window and began to drum on the pane. Dr. Châtelard removed his spectacles, and put them into his pocket. "One is reminded of the history of the judgment of Solomon," he remarked genially, as he followed Bethune to the door. "Permettez, cher capitaine? I return to your wife." *CHAPTER IX* "They’re going!" said Bethune, triumphantly. "Their fellow has patched up the motor; it will take them as far as the station at least." Harry English, pacing the little study much after the manner of Muhammed the night before, halted abruptly. "They ought to have gone an hour ago," he answered. And, when he looked like that, for a certainty Captain English wore no pleasant countenance. "What has he been doing?" The relaxation of the muscles, which was Bethune’s usual substitute for a smile, came over his face.