“Some tenants came to look at the house this morning. They had an order to view from us. They were sent away, my lord—and decline to come back. The rent has not been paid since the first half year. There is no one now who can even _pretend_ it’s going to be paid. Some step had to be taken.” “Quite so,” said Coombe. “Suppose you step into the dining-room.” He led the pair into the room and pointed to chairs, but neither the agent nor his attendant was calm enough to sit down. Coombe merely stood and explained himself. “I quite understand,” he said. “You are entirely within your rights. Mrs. Gareth-Lawless is, naturally, not able to attend to business. For the present—as a friend of her late husband’s—I will arrange matters for her. I am Lord Coombe. She does not wish to give up the house. Don’t send any more possible tenants. Call at Coombe House in an hour and I will give you a cheque.” There were a few awkward apologetic moments and then the front door opened and shut, the hansom jingled away and Coombe returned to the drawing-room. Robin was still shrieking. “She wants some more condensed milk,” he said. “Don’t be frightened. Go and give her some. I know an elderly woman who understands children. She was a nurse some years ago. I will send her here at once. Kindly give me the account books. My housekeeper will send you some servants. The trades-people will come for orders.” Feather was staring at him. “W-will they?” she stammered. “W-will everything—?” “Yes—everything,” he answered. “Don’t be frightened. Go upstairs and try to stop her. I must go now. I never heard a creature yell with such fury.” She turned away and went towards the second flight of stairs with a rather dazed air. She had passed through a rather tremendous crisis and she _was_ dazed. He made her feel so. She had never understood him for a moment and she did not understand him now—but then she never did understand people and the whole situation was a new one to her. If she had not been driven to the wall she would have been quite as respectable as she knew how to be. Coombe called a hansom and drove home, thinking of many things and looking even more than usually detached. He had remarked the facial expression of the short and stout man as he had got into his cab and he was turning over mentally his own exact knowledge of the views the business mind would have held and what the business countenance would have decently covered if he—Coombe—had explained in detail that he was so far—in this particular case—an entirely blameless character. CHAPTER VII