Meanwhile the motor which passed Newbury and Coryston in the park had sped to its goal. It had already carried Arthur Coryston over half the county. That morning he had been told at the Atherstones' cottage, on his breathless arrival there, just before luncheon, that while the Chancellor had returned to town, Miss Glenwilliam had motored to a friend's house, some twenty miles north, and was not going back to London till the evening. Arthur Coryston at once pursued her. Sorely against her will, he had forced the lady to an interview, and in the blind rage of his utter defeat and discomfiture, he left her again in hot quest of that explanation with his mother which Enid Glenwilliam had honestly--and vainly--tried to prevent. Lady Coryston meanwhile was bewildered by his absence. During the lonely hours when Marcia, from a distance, had once caught sight of her crossing an open window in her sitting-room, she had not been able to settle to any occupation, still less to rest. She tried to write out the Agenda of an important Primrose League meeting over which she was to preside; to put together some notes of her speech. In vain. A strange heaviness weighed upon her. The only stimulus that worked--and that only for a time--was a fierce attack on Glenwilliam in one of the morning papers. She read it hungrily; but it brought on acute headache, which reduced her to idleness and closed eyes. After a while she roused herself to pull down a blind against a teasing invasion of sun, and in doing so she perceived a slim, white figure hurrying away from the house, through the bright-colored mazes of the Italian garden. Marcia! She remembered vaguely that Marcia had come to her that morning in trouble about what? She could not remember. It had seemed to her of importance. At last, about half an hour after she had seen Marcia disappear in the shrubbery paths leading to the East Wood, Lady Coryston, startled by a sound from the fore-court, sat suddenly erect on her sofa. A motor? She rose, and going to a little mirror on the wall, she straightened the lace coiffure she habitually wore. In doing so she was struck--dismayed even--by her own aspect. "When this is all over, Marcia and I perhaps might go abroad for a week or two," she thought. A swift step approaching--a peremptory knock at the door. "Come in!" Arthur entered, and with his back against the door stood surveying his mother. She waited for him to speak, expecting violence. For some moments--in vain. Except in so far as his quick-breathing silence, his look of dry, hollow-eyed exasperation spoke--more piercingly than words. "Well, Arthur," she said, at last, "I have been expecting you for some time." "I have been trying to put the mischief you have done me straight," he said, between his teeth. "I have done you no mischief that I know of. Won't you come and sit down quietly--and talk the whole matter over? You can't imagine that I desire anything but your good!"