She changed the subject abruptly and talked about her call of the afternoon. “I went for bridge and got a string quartet playing every kind of music except one with a tune in it.” “It was lovely!” exclaimed Greta, her eyes screwed tight in an agony of admiration. “It was rotten,” retorted the gray-haired Anita. “And more rotten because my sister-in-law was there. The woman’s narrowness depresses me.” Lady Raytham’s eyes had returned to the fire. “Oh!” she said. “I asked her what she was going to do about Peter. Thank heavens she has a little sense there! Peter has been wiped off the slate. Margaret would not even discuss him. The only person who believed in him is Everreed, but Everreed was always a simpleton. He would never have prosecuted, but the bank forced his hand.” She said this with some satisfaction. She had never liked her nephew, and Peter hated her, hated her gibes at him when he, the son of a wealthy man, had preferred a private secretaryship with that great parliamentarian, Viscount Everreed, to entering his father’s bank. She had sat in court with a contemptuous smile on her lips when the haggard boy had been sentenced for forging his employer’s name to a check for five thousand pounds. The woman by the fire stirred her tea absently. “When does----” “He come out? About now, I think. Let me see. He had seven years, and they tell me that these people get a remission of sentence for good conduct--three months in every year. Why, Heaven knows. We pay enormous sums to catch ’em, and as soon as they are safe under lock and key, we go tinkering with the lock to get them out.” “Disgraceful!” murmured Greta. But Jane Raytham did not hear her. “I wonder what he will do?” she mused. “Life will go pretty badly for a man like Peter----” “Rubbish!” Anita snapped the word. “For goodness’ sake don’t get melancholy about Peter! He has been five years in prison; and at Dartmoor, or wherever he is, they teach men to use their hands to do something besides forge checks. He will probably make an excellent farm hand.” Lady Raytham shivered. “Ugh! How awful!” The princess smiled. “Peter Dawlish is just a fool. He belongs to the type of humans that is made for other people’s service. If you start worrying about Peter, you’ll shed tears over the partridge that comes to your table! I wonder what he thinks about Druze?” Lady Raytham looked up. “Do you think he still hates him?” Anita pursed her large lips. “Druze was Everreed’s butler and cashed the check; the next day Peter disappears on his holiday--in reality on his great adventure. He returns and is arrested, swears he knows nothing about the check, and accuses poor Druze of forgery--which doesn’t save him from imprisonment.” Lady Raytham said nothing. “Naturally Peter feels sore--if he was still right in believing Druze the villain of the piece. There may be trouble; we needn’t deceive ourselves.”