Now, to cap everything, came this "Siege of Houghton Park," to which the newspapers, one and all, accorded the place of honour in their columns. It was the "story of the day." This final ignominy would give Rutland's smug respectability its deathblow. Never again, would its county families be able to rear their proud heads and look contemptuously down upon the families of other counties and mentally ejaculate--"We thank thee, O Lord, that we are not as these publicans." Henceforth, proud and exclusive Rutland would bear the brand of Cain, or what "the county" deemed just as bad--the brand of Public Notoriety. Yes, there is amazing snobbishness, even yet, in our rural districts. Yet there is also still some sterling British broad-mindedness--the old English gentleman, happily, still survives. Faulkner had asked me to go to a theatre with him. He knew, he said, he could not ask Vera, with her father so ill, but Violet de Coudron would be there. He would try to get a fourth, as he had a box. There was no good in moping, he ended, sensibly enough. I returned to King Street to dress, intending to telephone first, to the hospital, to inquire for Sir Charles. On the table, in my sitting-room, a telegram awaited me. Somehow I guessed it must be from Vera in her distress, and hurriedly tore it open-- "Father sinking fast," it ran, "and beseeching for you to come to him. Come at once. Most urgent--Vera." I rang for my man. The telegram had been awaiting me about half-an-hour, he said. Telling him to telephone to the hospital, to say I was on my way, and also to Faulkner, to tell him I couldn't go to the theatre, I hurried down the stairs, dashed out into the street, and hailed the first taxi I met. Was the actual truth at last to be revealed? CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. A STRANGE TRUTH IS TOLD. I went straight up to the side-ward in the hospital where Thorold lay, the hall-porter, in his glass-box, having nodded me within. At the door of the ward I met the sister, in her blue gown. "I am so glad you have come, Mr. Ashton!" she exclaimed. "He wants so much to see you, and I fear he has not long to live." The dark-eyed woman, with the medal on her breast, seemed genuinely distressed. Thorold, for some reason, had always attracted women. I think it was his sympathetic nature that drew women to him. I waited in the corridor. Suddenly Vera came out, a handkerchief saturated with antiseptic before her mouth, to avoid infection. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red from weeping. On seeing me, she began to sob bitterly; then she buried her face in her hands. I did my best to comfort her, though it was a hard task. At last she spoke--"Go in to him--go in to him now, dear," she exclaimed broken-heartedly. "He wants you alone--quite alone."