I am under the impression Lavender did his best to lighten the tedium of my vigil by talking, humorously and well, of matters pertaining to his profession. That he discoursed to me of the differences between English and Continental methods of criminal procedure—the former of which he held notably superior in dignity and in fair-play—while his underlings smoked their pipes in modest silence. But I am afraid I accorded his well-meant efforts for my entertainment scanty attention; nor even, when the storm broke, did I pay much heed to the long-drawn cannonade, the boom and crash of warring elements. For, throughout that lengthy waiting, the thought of Hartover and of his future had grown to be a veritable obsession, dwarfing all else in my mind. Again his pathetic outcry over the ‘poor, poor, hateful little Chelsea house’—the roof and chimney-pots of which I could see there opposite, above the fringe of broken bottle glass topping the wall—rang in my ears. And, as it did so, Self, by God’s grace, at last, was mastered. Yes, it came to this—to all else would I give the go-by, readily, gladly—to my pleasant studious life at Cambridge and its prospect of solid emoluments, of personal distinction and scholarly renown, to my last lingering hope—for even yet a faint, sweet, foolish hope did linger—of some day making Nellie Braithwaite nearer, and ah! how vastly, exquisitely dearer than a mere friend—if thus I might be permitted to redeem Hartover, to save him from the consequences of his own wayward, though not ignoble, nature, and from the consequences of others’ wholly ignoble conspiracies and sins. I was ready to make my sacrifice without hesitation or return; only, in my weakness, I prayed for some assurance it was accepted, prayed for a sign. Was the sign given? It seemed so. I sprang to my feet, calling Lavender hurriedly by name. It was late afternoon now. The worst of the storm over, though big plashy drops still fell, while steam rose off the sun-baked paving-stones. Through this veil of moisture a man walked rapidly to the door in the wall and knocked. Waiting for his knock to be answered, he turned, took off his hat, shook it sharply to dislodge the wet, and, so doing, glanced up at the still lowering sky. I saw his face distinctly. Lavender stood at my elbow. ‘Well, sir, well, sir?’ he said, an odd eagerness and vibration in his voice. ‘Yes,’ I declared. ‘Marsigli, Lord Longmoor’s former butler, without doubt.’ ‘You would be prepared to swear to him in a court of law, if required?’ ‘Absolutely prepared,’ I said. Here the door was opened cautiously from the garden. Marsigli thrust past the servant, and disappeared within.