"No one knows," said the Soldier, quietly. "He came out a week ago. His brother met him at the prison gates, but Hugh gave him the slip. And since then he’s hidden himself. Of course, he could be traced, but his father is wise, I think, in not doing so." The Bishop nodded. "He will find himself in time; and it’s best to leave him alone till he does. A good boy, too." For a while the three men were silent while the soft summer breeze played gently through the old-fashioned garden outside, and the wonderful scent of the laburnum came fragrant through the open windows. "I forget exactly what happened," remarked the Actor, at length. "I was producing ’King Lear’ at the time, I remember, and——" He glanced inquiringly at the General. "A fairly common story," returned the Soldier, lighting a cigarette thoughtfully. "The boy had been an ass and owed a lot of money to some bookmaker. Then he plunged on the Derby—the year Signorinetta won at a hundred to one—and went down, like most of us did. Two days afterwards a couple of thousand in cash was missing. Also the books were falsified over a long period. Everything pointed to him, and they found him guilty, though he protested his innocence all through. A month ago the real thief confessed—two and half years too late." The General shrugged his shoulders, and then suddenly sat motionless, staring with narrowed eyes into the darkness outside. "Quaint how one’s eyes deceive one at night." He sat back again in his chair. "For a moment I thought I saw someone moving by the edge of the lawn." "And your niece?" pursued the Actor. "Weren’t they engaged or something?" "Yes. It almost broke Beryl’s heart. You know, of course, the dog was his?" "I did not," said the Actor. "Ah! that accounts, of course, for her terrible grief." "If I had my way," snarled the General, fiercely, "I’d flog that young swine Parker to within an inch of his worthless life. And then I’d put a trap on his own leg." The Actor nodded. "I agree, General. Personally I am no great dog-lover. They have a way of concealing themselves about the furniture which is most disconcerting should one inadvertently sit upon them. But a trap——" He shuddered, and poured himself out some more port. "If only we could get hold of the boy," mused the General, returning to his original theme. "I can guess what he’s feeling, and the longer he goes on without the human touch, the harder and more bitter he’ll become. He wants to be made to shake hands with reality again; to hit something, if you like—but to get it over. He’s bottling it up—I know it; and it’s a bad thing for a youngster to bottle up bitterness."