Rotherby shook him as if he had been a rat. “You cursed fool!” he cried. “You left him there--at the desk?” “What help had I?” demanded Green with spirit. “My eyes were on fire. I couldn't see, and the pain of them made me helpless.” “Then why did ye not send word to me at once, you fool?” “Because I was concerned only to stop my eyes from burning,” answered Mr. Green, in a towering rage at finding reproof where he had come in quest of sympathy. “I have come to you at the first moment, damn you!” he burst out, in full rebellion. “And you'll use me civilly now that I am come, or--ecod!--it'll be the worse for your lordship.” Rotherby considered him through a faint mist that rage had set before his eyes. To be so spoken to--damned indeed!--by a dirty spy! Had he been alone with the man, there can be little doubt but that he would have jeopardized his very precarious future by kicking Mr. Green downstairs. But his mother saved him from that rashness. It may be that she saw something of his anger in his kindling eye, and thought it well to intervene. She set a hand on his sleeve. “Charles!” she said to him in a voice that was dead cold with warning. He responded to it, and chose discretion. He looked Green over, nevertheless. “I vow I'm very patient with you,” said he, and Green had the discretion on his side to hold his tongue. “Come, man, while we stand talking here that knave may be destroying precious evidence.” And his lordship went quickly down the stairs, Mr. Green following hard upon his heels, and her ladyship bringing up the rear. At the door of the library Rotherby came to a halt, and turned the handle. The door was locked. He beckoned a couple of footmen across the hall, and bade them break it open. CHAPTER XX. Mr. CARYLL'S IDENTITY “I must see Lord Ostermore!” had been Mr. Caryll's wild cry, as he strode to the door. From the other side of it there came a sound of steps and voices. Some one was turning the handle. Hortensia caught Mr. Caryll by the sleeve. “But the letters!” she cried frantically, and pointed to the incriminating papers which he had left, forgotten, upon the desk. He stared at her a moment, and memory swept upon him in a flood. He mastered the wild agitation that had been swaying him, thrust the paper that he was carrying into his pocket, and turned to go back for the treasonable letters. “The taper!” he exclaimed, and pointed to the extinguished candle on the floor. “What can we do?” A sharp blow fell upon the lock of the door. He stood still, looking over his shoulder. “Quick! Make haste!” Hortensia admonished him in her excitement. “Get them! Conceal them, at least! Do the best you can since we have not the means to burn them.”