"If you cannot see your own conduct as others see it, who can make you? I am not referring to the disgrace of last night, though heaven knows that was bad enough, I am talking of _everything_, of your poor wife who loves you still, of the estate you have ruined by your lunatic conduct, of the company you keep, of the insults you have heaped on people--and now you add drink to the rest. That's new." She paused. "That's new. But I warn you, your brain won't stand _that_. You know the taint in the family as well as I do, it has shewn itself in your actions. Well, go on drinking and you will end in Bedlam instead of the workhouse. They call you 'Mad Rochester'; you know that." She choked. "I have blushed to be known as your sister--I have tried to keep my place here and save you. It's ended." She turned to the door. Jones had been making up his mind. He would tell the whole affair. This Rochester was a thoroughly bad lot evidently; well, he would turn the tables on him now. "Look here," said he. "I am not the man you think I am." "Tosh!" cried the woman. She opened the door, passed out, and shut it with a snap. "Well, I'm d----d," said Jones, for the second time in connection with Rochester. The clock on the mantelpiece pointed to a quarter to eleven; the faint sound of the car had ceased. The lady of the feather boa had evidently taken her departure, and the house had resumed its cloistral silence. He waited a moment to make sure, then he went into the hall where a huge flunkey--a new one, more curious than the others, was lounging near the door. "My hat," said Jones. The thing flew, and returned with a glossy silk hat, a tortoiseshell handled cane, and a pair of new suede gloves of a delicate dove colour. Then it opened the door, and Jones, clapping the hat on his head, walked out. The hat fitted, by a mercy. CHAPTER V THE POINT OF THE JOKE Out in the open air and sunshine he took a deep satisfying breath. He felt as though he had escaped from a cage full of monkeys. Monkeys in the form of men, creatures who would servilely obey him as Rochester, but who, scenting the truth, would rend him in pieces. Well, he was clear of them. Once back in the Savoy he would get into his own things, and once in his own things he would strike. If he could not get a lawyer to take his case up against Rochester, he would go to the police. Yes, he would. Rochester had doped him, taken his letters, taken his watch. Jones was not the man to bring false charges. He knew that in taking his belongings, this infernal jester had done so, not for plunder, but for the purpose of making the servants believe that he, Rochester, had been stripped of everything by sharks, and sent home in an old suit of clothes; all the same he would charge Rochester with the taking of his things, he would teach this practical joker how to behave. To cool himself and collect his thoughts before going to the Savoy, he took a walk in the Green Park.