Mr. Hazlewood had no more to say. He must renounce his gods or hold his tongue. And renounce his gods--no, that he could not do. He heard in imagination the whole neighbourhood laughing--he saw it a sea of laughter overwhelming him. He shivered as he thought of it. He, Harold Hazlewood, the man emancipated from the fictions of society, caught like a silly struggling fish in the net of his own theories! No, that must never be. He flung himself at his work. He was revising the catalogue of his miniatures and in a minute he began to fumble and search about his over-loaded desk. "Everybody is trying to thwart me this morning," he cried angrily. "What's the matter, father?" asked Dick, laying down the _Times_. "Can I help?" "I wrote a question to _Notes and Queries_ about the Marie Antoinette miniature which I bought at Lord Mirliton's sale and there was an answer in the last number, a very complete answer. But I can't find it. I can't find it anywhere"; and he tossed his papers about as though he were punishing them. Dick helped in the search, but beyond a stray copy or two of _The Prison Walls must Cast no Shadow_, there was no publication to be found at all. "Wait a bit, father," said Dick suddenly. "What is _Notes and Queries_ like? The only notes and queries I read are contained in a pink paper. They are very amusing but they do not deal with miniatures." Mr. Hazlewood described the appearance of the little magazine. "Well, that's very extraordinary," said Dick, "for Aunt Margaret took it away last night." Mr. Hazlewood looked at his son in blank astonishment. "Are you sure, Richard?" "I saw it in her hand as she stepped into her carriage." Mr. Hazlewood banged his fist upon the table. "It's extremely annoying of Margaret," he exclaimed. "She takes no interest in such matters. She is not, if I may use the word, a virtuoso. She did it solely to annoy me." "Well, I wonder," said Dick. He looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. He went out into the hall, picked up a straw hat and walked across the meadow to the thatched cottage on the river-bank. But while he went he was still wondering why in the world Margaret had taken away that harmless little magazine from his father's writing-table. "Pettifer's at the bottom of it," he concluded. "There's a foxy fellow for you. I'll keep my eye on Uncle Robert." He was near to the cottage. Only a rail separated its garden from the meadow. Beyond the garden a window stood open and within the room he saw the flutter of a lilac dress.