‘It was an act of vengeance, of revenge. She had deserted him; and now, as he believed, betrayed him to the police in the hope of being finally rid of him.’ ‘Deserted—how deserted?’ Hartover demanded, with sudden arrogance. ‘Fédore was his wife. He and she were married here in London three years ago. A copy of the marriage certificate, taken from the register of the church where the ceremony was performed, was shown me this morning. It is perfectly in order and establishes the legality of the marriage absolutely.’ ‘The—then’—he asked—‘am I to understand that my marriage’⸺ ‘Is void. A fraud—legally Fédore was nothing to you.’ The boy’s hand sank on to the table, with a jangle of glasses overset among the silver. He turned away his head. The moment was critical. I awaited the outcome of it in rather sickening dread. Hartover’s physical courage I knew to be above reproach—of the stuff which charges gaily up to the mouths of the enemy’s guns, or leads a forlorn hope. But, here, moral not physical courage was on trial. Had he sufficient moral stamina to stand the test? And, as the seconds passed, thankful conviction grew on me that he had. There would be no storm now, either of anger or of tears. Hysterics and blind rage alike are the sign of weakness, superficial, and, as often as not, a mere matter of nerves. But here we had got down to the solid rock of character, of inbred tradition and instinctive pride of race. By the greatness of the deception practised on him, of the discovery that he had been the prey and plaything of a designing woman whose care and love masked intensity of worldly greed, and of the humiliation consequent on this, the boy’s self-respect was too deeply involved. Whatever he suffered he would keep to himself. Still, I own his next move, when it came, surprised me by what I can only call its virility of conception. He threw back his head, got up, walked across to the fireplace and, with his hand on the bell-rope, the ghost of a smile—the bravest, most piteous smile I have ever seen—upon his lips, said: ‘I’m right in thinking, am I not, Brownlow, you told me my stepmother arrived just as you came in?’ I answered in the affirmative, not a little perplexed as to what was to follow. He rang, and when William appeared gave orders her ladyship be informed that Lord Hartover requested to see her. ‘Let Lady Longmoor be told I will be in the white drawing-room, and that I beg she will join me there with as little delay as possible.’ Then to me: ‘You will come too, Brownlow, please. I prefer to have a witness to our conversation.’