It was between one and two o’clock when he reached the house and asked to see Mr. and Mrs. George Vyell, They were not at home, the footman said; had left for Falmouth the evening before to join some friends on a yachting cruise. Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed, lunching at that moment; but would no doubt be pleased to see Mr. Raymond. Sir Harry had finished his lunch, and sat sipping his claret and tossing scraps of biscuits to the dogs. “Hullo, Raymond!--thought you were in Oxford. Sit down, my boy; delighted to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for Mr. Raymond. The cutlets are cold, I’m afraid; but I can recommend the cold saddle, and the ham--it’s a York ham. Go to the sideboard and forage for yourself. I wanted company. My boy and Honoria are at Falmouth yachting, and have left me alone. What, you won’t eat? A glass of claret, then, at any rate.” “To tell the truth, Sir Harry,” Taffy began awkwardly. “I’ve come on a disagreeable business.” Sir Harry’s face fell. He hated disagreeable business. He flipped a piece of biscuit at his spaniel’s nose and sat back, crossing his legs. “Won’t it keep?” “To me it’s important.” “Oh, fire away then: only help yourself to the claret first.” “A girl--Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona--has had a child born--” “Stop a moment. Do I know her?--Ah, to be sure--daughter of old Pezzack, the light-keeper--a brown-coloured girl with her hair over her eyes. Well, I’m not surprised. Wants money, I suppose? Who’s the father?” “I don’t know.” “Well, but--damn it all!--somebody knows.” Sir Harry reached for the bottle and refilled his glass. “The one thing I know is that Honoria--Mrs. George, I mean--has heard about it, and suspects me.” Sir Harry lifted his glass and glanced at him over the rim. “That’s the devil. Does she, now?” He sipped. “She hasn’t been herself for a day or two--this explains it. I thought it was change of air she wanted. She’s in the deuce of a rage, you bet.” “She is,” said Taffy grimly. “There’s no prude like your young married woman. But it’ll blow over, my boy. My advice to you is to keep out of the way for a while.” “But--but it’s a lie!” broke in the indignant Taffy. “As far as I am concerned there’s not a grain of truth in it!” “Oh--I beg your pardon, I’m sure.” Here Honoria’s terrier (the one which George had bought for her at Plymouth) interrupted by begging for a biscuit, and Sir Harry balanced one carefully on its nose. “On trust--good dog! What does the girl say herself?” “I don’t know. I’ve not seen her.” “Then, my dear fellow--it’s awkward, I admit--but I’m dashed if I see what you expect me to do.” The baronet pulled out a handkerchief and began flicking the crumbs off his knees.