Meanwhile Mr. Chattaway had entered his house. Some of the children who were in the drawing-room heard him and went into the hall to welcome him after his long day's absence. But they were startled by the pallor of his countenance; it looked perfectly livid as the light of the hall-lamp fell upon it. Mr. Chattaway could not inflict such chastisement on Rupert without its emotional effects telling upon himself. He took off his hat, and laid his whip upon the table. "We thought you would be home before this, papa." "Where's your mother?" he rejoined, paying no attention to their remark. "She is upstairs in her sitting-room." Mr. Chattaway turned to the staircase and ascended. Mrs. Chattaway was not in her room; but the sound of voices in Miss Diana's guided him to where he should find her. This sitting-room, devoted exclusively to Miss Diana Trevlyn, was on the side of the house next the rick-yard and farm-buildings, which it overlooked. The apartment was almost in darkness; the fire had dimmed, and neither lamp nor candles had been lighted. Mrs. Chattaway and Miss Diana sat there conversing together. "Who is this?" cried the former, looking round. "Oh, is it you, James? I did not know you were home again. What a fine day you have had for Whitterbey!" Mr. Chattaway growled something about the day not having been particularly fine. "Did you buy the stock you thought of buying?" asked Miss Diana. "I bought some," he said, rather sulkily. "Prices ran high to-day." "You are home late," she resumed. "I came round by Blackstone." It was evident by his tone and manner that he was in one of his least genial humours. Both ladies knew from experience that the wisest plan at those times was to leave him to himself, and they resumed their own converse. Mr. Chattaway stood with his back to them, his hands in his pockets, his eyes peering into the dark night. Not in reality looking at anything, or attempting to look; he was far too deeply engaged with his thoughts to attend to outward things. He was beginning very slightly to repent of the horsewhipping, to doubt whether it might not have been more prudent had he abstained from inflicting it. As many more of us do, when we awake to reflection after some act committed in anger. If Rupert _was_ to be dreaded; if he, in connection with others, was hatching treason, this outrage would only make him a more bitter enemy. Better, perhaps, not to have gone to the extremity. But it was done; it could not be undone; and to regret it were worse than useless. Mr. Chattaway began thinking of the point which had led to it--the refusal of Rupert to say who had admitted him. This at least Mr. Chattaway determined to ascertain. "Did either of you let in Rupert last night?" he suddenly inquired, looking round.