"Then I don't understand in the least--unless--unless--" She put out two deprecating hands. "You don't mean to tell me that this is your house, and we've been living in it without your knowledge! Oh! why didn't you tell me?" "Come, I like that!" said I. "You'll admit, on reflection, that you haven't given me much time." But she stamped her foot. "I'll go upstairs and pack at once," she declared. "That will hardly meet the case, I'm afraid. You forget that your brother is downstairs: and by his look, when I left him, he'll take a deal of packing." "Herbert?" She put a hand to her brow. "I was forgetting. Then you are not Herbert's friend after all?" "I have made a beginning. But in fact, I made his acquaintance at Vine Street just now. Trewlove--that's my scoundrel of a butler--has been making up to him under my name. They met at the house-agent's, probably. The rogue models himself upon me: but when it comes to letting my house-- By the way, have you paid him by cheque?" "I paid the agent. I knew nothing of you until Herbert announced that he'd made your acquaintance--" "Pray go on," said I, watching her troubled eyes. "It would be interesting to hear how he described me." "He used a very funny word. He said you were the rummiest thing in platers he'd struck for a long while. But, of course, he was talking of the other man." "Of course," said I gravely: whereupon our eyes met, and we both laughed. "Ah, but you are kind!" she cried. "And when I think how we have treated you--if only I _could_ think--" Her hand went up again to her forehead. "It will need some reparation," said I. "But we'll discuss that when I come back." "Was--was Herbert very bad?" She attempted to laugh, but tears suddenly brimmed her eyes. "I scarcely noticed," said I; and, picking up my hat, went out hurriedly. V. Trewlove in his Marlborough Street cell was a disgusting object-- offensive to the eye and to one's sense of the dignity of man. At sight of me he sprawled, and when the shock of it was over he continued to grovel until the sight bred a shame in me for being the cause of it. What made it ten times worse was his curious insensibility--even while he grovelled--to the moral aspect of his behaviour. "You will lie here," said I, "until to-morrow morning, when you will probably be fined fifty shillings and costs, _plus_ the cost of the broken glass at Toscano's. I take it for granted that the money will be paid?" "I will send, sir, to my lodgings for my cheque-book." "It's a trifling matter, no doubt, but since you will be charged under the name of William John Trewlove, it will be a mistake to put 'G. A. Richardson' on the cheque." "It was an error of judgment, sir, my giving your name here." "It was a worse one," I assured him, "to append it to the receipt for Miss Jarmayne's rent." "You don't intend to prosecute, Mr. George?" "Why not?" "But you don't, sir; something tells me that you don't."