"Oh, shut up," said Jones. He sighted the car, ran to it and opened the door. A whimpering bundle in the corner stretched out hands as if to ward him off. "Oh! oh! oh!" sighed and murmured the bundle. Jones caught one of the hands, leaned in and kissed it. Then he turned to Venetia who had followed him. "Get in," he said. She got in. He got in after her and closed the door. Venetia put her head out of the window: "Home," cried she to the chauffeur. Jones said nothing till they had cleared the station precincts. Then he began to talk in the darkness, addressing his remarks to both women in a weird sort of monologue. "All this is nothing," said he, "you must both forget it. When you hear what I have to tell you to-morrow you won't bother to remember all this. No one that counts saw that, they were all strangers and making for the cars--I gave the officer a sovereign. What I have to say is this--I must have a meeting of the whole family to-morrow, to-morrow morning. Not about this affair, about something else, something entirely to do with me. I have been trying to explain all day--tried to write it out but couldn't. I have to tell you something that will simply knock you all out of time." Suddenly the sniffing bundle in the corner became articulate. "I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it--I hate him--oh, Ju-Ju, if you had not treated me so last night, I would never have done it, never, never, never." "I know," he replied, "but it was not my fault leaving you like that. I had to go. You will know everything to-morrow--when you hear all you will very likely never speak to me again--though I am innocent enough, Lord knows." Then came Venetia's voice: "This is new--Heaven _knows_ we have had disgrace enough--what else is going to fall on us?--Why put it off till to-morrow--what new thing have you done?" Before Jones could reply, the warm hearted bundle in the corner ceased sniffing and turned on Venetia. "No matter what he has done, you are his sister and you have no right to accuse him." "Accuse him!" cried the outraged Venetia. "Yes, accuse him; you don't say it, but you feel it. I believe you'd be glad in some wicked way if he had done anything really terrible." Venetia made a noise like the sound emitted by a choking hen. Teresa had put her finger on the spot. Venetia was not a wicked woman, she was something nearly as bad, a Righteous woman, one of the Ever-judges. The finding out of other people's sins gave her pleasure. Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had suddenly entered his practical mind. "Good heavens," said he, "what has become of your luggage?" "I don't know and I don't care," replied the roused one, "let it go with the rest." The car drew up. "You will stay with us to-night, I suppose," said Venetia coldly. "I suppose so," replied the other. Jones got out.