When Mr. Perry-Hennington reached the house, a rather unwelcome surprise awaited him. Edith was seated in the inner hall with niece Millicent. Driven by the pangs of conscience, she had come to implore help for John Smith. But for Millicent, this meant the horns of a dilemma. Her sympathy had been keenly aroused by her cousin’s strange confession, but Gervase had been too much troubled by the matter already, and his wife was very unwilling to tax him further. The arrival of the vicar, while Edith and Millicent were still anxiously discussing the line to take, was very embarrassing for all three. It only needed a hint to set Mr. Perry-Hennington on the track of their conversation. And when he realized, as he did almost at once, that Edith was in the very act of working against him, he felt a shock of pain. Dissembling his feelings, however, he asked that he might see Gervase. But Millicent with a shrewd guess at his purpose, went the length of denying him. Gervase was not quite so well, and she had foolishly allowed him to tire himself with their American neighbor, the new tenant of Longwood, who had stayed more than an hour. But the vicar was not in a mood to be thwarted. The matter was important, and he would only stay five minutes. “Well, Uncle Tom,” said the wife anxiously, “if you see Gervase for five minutes, you must solemnly promise not to refer to John Smith.” Mr. Perry-Hennington could give no such undertaking. Indeed he had to admit that John Smith was the sole cause and object of his visit. Thereupon to Edith’s horror, Millicent suddenly flashed out: “I think it’s perfectly shameful, Uncle Tom, that you should be acting toward that dear fellow in the way that you are doing.” The vicar was quite taken aback. He glanced at the disloyal Edith with eyes of stern accusation. But it was not his intention to be drawn into any discussion of the matter with a pair of irresponsible women. He was hurt, and rather angry, but as always there was a high sense of duty to sustain him. “Not more than five minutes, I promise you,” he said decisively. And then with the air of a law-giver and chief magistrate, he marched along a low-ceiled, stone-flagged corridor to the library. XIX BRANDON was alone. The spinal chair had been set in the oriel that was so dear to him, and now he was propped up, with a book in his hand and his favorite view before him. The vicar’s greeting was full of kindness, but the stricken man met it with an air of pain, perplexity and secret antagonism. “The very man I have been hoping to see,” he said in a rather faint voice. And then he added, almost with distress, “I want so much to have a talk with you about this miserable business.” “Don’t let it worry you in any way, my dear fellow,” said the vicar in a tone of reassurance. “Proper and ample provision can easily be made for the poor man if we behave sensibly. At least Whymper thinks so.” “Hidebound donkey! What has he to do with it?”