“And the decree has been made absolute?” “Six months—” “It is too late, thank God, for mere intervention.” Miss Saker stared. “Why do you say ‘thank God’?” she asked. “Because, madam, I would not have my son re-wedded to a devil.” There was a short but impressive silence between them for a moment. Then Miss Saker stood up, tugging at her gloves. John Strong also rose like a man who was very tired. “You understand, Mr. Strong,” she said, “what a terrible ordeal this has been to me.” “I understand, madam, and, believe me, I am grateful.” “And your promise?” “A promise, Miss Saker, is a promise.” The woman in the pink toque smiled, but the smile vanished utterly as she met the old man’s gray eyes. There was something so subtle and contemptuous in the look he gave her that her vapid self-esteem and her facile hypocrisy seemed to wither in a moment. “Good-bye,” she gushed, holding out a hand. John Strong touched her fingers and walked with her towards the door. “Good-bye, madam,” he said. “I hope you will have a pleasant drive to Gabingly.” “Gabingly? Not Gabingly, Rilchester.” “Pardon me, I was forgetting.” “Rilchester. I leave for London to-night.” When the woman in the pink toque with her silks and perfumes had gone, and the sound of the carriage wheels had died beyond the meadows, John Strong passed back to the library and found Judith standing by the window. There was so strange a look upon her father’s face that Judith gazed at him and was mute. Haggard as he looked, a certain grim joy seemed to shine in his gray eyes, a joy that betrayed the passions that were working in his heart. Judith went to him and held his arm. “Father, what is it?” she asked. He partly leaned upon her, with one hand upon her shoulder. “I was in the wrong,” he said, doggedly. “Father!” “Gabriel shall come home.” “Home!” “And I, John Strong, will stand and fight beside my son.” XLIV THE master of Saltire was no mean enemy to be pitted against in such a feud as had arisen over Gabriel, his son. There was much of the bull-terrier about John Strong. He had been born of solid yeoman stock, folk who would have gone stubbornly to the stake rather than admit the power of the pope. Moreover, the ex-tea-merchant had learned to the full in his commercial life the sure power of gold. He had always laughed at socialism. Even Judith could remember him standing before a public building in France and staring contemptuously at the inscription: “LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ” “Bosh!” he had ejaculated; “the Revolution did not abolish bullion.” John Strong was not only a stubborn and a very wealthy man, but he was in that pugnacious mood that had served him so well in his commercial struggles in the past. He threw himself into the cause with something of the spirit of an old British sea-dog laying his ship “gun to gun” against the crack “thunderer” of the French fleet.