“I am inclined to estimate his character almost as highly as you,” replied Lord Cheriton, deliberately, “yet the straightest walker may make one false step—and there may have been some unfortunate entanglement at the University or in London——” “I will never believe it. He may have been tempted—he may have yielded to temptation,—but if he erred, be sure he atoned for his error to the uttermost of his power.” “There are errors—seeming light to the steps that stumble—which cannot be atoned for.” “There was no such error in his youth. I looked in his face on his wedding day, Lord Cheriton, and it was the face of a man of unblemished life—a man who need fear no ghost out of the dead past.” “Well, you are right, I believe,—and in that case the murder is motiveless—the murder of a madman—a madman so profoundly artful in his lunacy as to escape every eye. By heaven, I wish we had the old way of hunting such a quarry—and that a leash of bloodhounds could have been set loose upon his track within an hour of the murder. _They_ would have hunted him down—_their_ instinct would have found him skulking and shivering in his lair; and we should have needed no astute detective primed with all the traditions of Scotland Yard. It would have been swift, sudden justice—blood for blood.” His dark grey eyes shone with an angry light as he walked up and down the spacious floor of the library, while the Vicar stood in front of the fire, looking gravely into his clerical hat, and without any suggestion to offer. “I hope Lady Carmichael is recovering her spirits,” he said feebly, after a pause. “She is not any happier than she was when her loss was a week old; but she keeps up in a wonderful way. I believe she is sustained by some wild notion that the murderer will be found—that she will live to see her husband’s death avenged. I doubt if at present she has any other interest in life.” “But let us hope she will be cheered by the society of her husband’s people. I hear that the Morningsides and the Grenvilles are to be at the Priory in November.” “Indeed! I have heard nothing about it.” “I was at Swanage yesterday afternoon, and took tea with Lady Jane. She was full of praises of Lady Carmichael’s goodness, and her desire that all things at the Priory might be just as they had been in Sir Godfrey’s lifetime. His brothers-in-law used to be invited for the shooting in November, and they were to be invited this year, on condition that Lady Jane would help to entertain them, and Lady Jane has consented gladly. So there will be a large family party at the Priory on this side of Christmas,” concluded the Vicar. “I am glad to hear it,” said Lord Cheriton. “Anything is better for her than solitude; any occupation, if it be only revising a bill of fare, or listening to feminine twaddle, is better for her than idleness.” “Yes, there will be a houseful,” pursued the Vicar; “Mrs. Grenville takes her nursery with her wherever she goes.”