But it had gone too far. His greatest pride—his regiment, his men, their Fund—was his greatest dishonor. Better discovery—anything rather than this awful continuation. He swayed—Petrie caught him; there was a moment’s surprised ejaculation from the crowd. Lord Kerhill was ill. The heat had been intense during the afternoon drill. It was noticed then that he was unwell—and so the tactful excuses went from one to another as Henry was assisted by Petrie to the library. But Lady Elizabeth, with some hurried orders to Petrie, turned to the assembled guests. "My lord Bishop, some one has said ’speech is but broken light falling on the depths of the unspeakable.’ This in thanks for the great honor done our house. I am sure my son’s inability to reply is more due to your eloquent tribute than to his slight indisposition. Won’t you allow the tea to be served? Lord Kerhill will, I am sure, join you very shortly." Imperiously she took command of the situation, and soon the waiting servants were dispensing tea, while the guests discussed the beauties of the cup that lay in its velvet case, as if nothing unusual had happened. Then quietly she made her way to Henry. She found him alone, and motioned him to follow her into a small room adjoining the library; it had been a prayer-closet in the past for a devout Kerhill, but during recent years it had been used as a smoking-den, with old sporting-prints and curious whips and spurs in place of the _prie-dieu_ and the crucifix. Drawing the bolt across the oak door, Elizabeth Kerhill turned and faced her son. "Henry, what is it?" "The South American Security Company—a swindle. Hobbes a fugitive—for me exposure." Lady Elizabeth realized that if salvation were to come to him it must be through her. "To prevent this exposure, you must not lose your self-control. We must think—not feel—think what we can do," she began. And Henry answered, calmly, "I must blow my brains out." "Dear God!" her heart prayed as she watched him. His dull impassiveness frightened her more than any madness of rebellion; he meant this—it was no idle boast. Had she only delayed, not prevented, the contemplated tragedy of the night before? Tightly she buckled on her armor of mother-love. She must fight—fight him—the world, if necessary, but she must win. She put all the sickening hurt and broken courage behind her. She must obtain help—from whom? In the mean time she must distract and arouse him from this awful apathy of resignation to his disgrace. While these thoughts were flashing through her brain she answered: "If—" she paused, she could not say the word. "If—_that_—" she half whispered, "would cover up the shame—but it wouldn’t. No; no Earl of Kerhill must go into history as a—" "Thief!" Henry supplied the word. It was a relief to speak it. "You might as well say it—no one else will hesitate to do so." His voice shook, but he still maintained his stoicism.