Mr. Wordley sprang to his feet, his passion rendering him speechless for a moment.

“You rebuke Miss Ida!  Are you out of your mind?  And pray, what had she done?”

“She had been guilty of attempting to ensnare the affection of my son—­” began John Heron.

At this moment the door opened and Joseph appeared.  Mr. Wordley looked at him.

“Ensnaring the affections of this!” he snorted, with a contempt which caused Mr. Joseph’s immediate retreat.  “Oh, you must be out of your mind!”

“Her conduct was reprehensible in other ways,” stammered John Heron.

“Nonsense!” almost shouted Mr. Wordley.  “I don’t want to hear any more of such nonsense.  Miss Ida’s conduct reprehensible!  Why, she couldn’t conduct herself in any way than that of a high-bred, pure-minded, gentle-hearted girl, if she tried!  You have been entertaining an angel unawares, Mr. Heron—­there’s a bit of Scripture for you!—­you’ve had a pearl in your house, and it’s been cast before—­Bless my soul!  I’m losing my temper!  But, ’pon my word, there’s some excuse for it.  You’ve let that dear child leave your house, you’ve lost sight of her for over a fortnight, and—­and you stand there and snuffle to me about her ‘conduct!’ Where is she?  Oh, of course, you don’t know; and you’d stand there like a stuck pig, if I were fool enough to remain here for a week and ask questions.  But I want her—­I want her at once!  I’ve got important news for her news of the greatest importance—­I beg your pardon, my dear madame, for the violence of my language—­though I could say a great deal more to this husband of yours if I were alone with him.  But it’s no use wasting further time.  I must find her—­I must find her at once.”

John Heron was as red as a turkey-cock and gasping like a cod out of water.

“This gross and unseemly attack is only excused by your age—­”

“Confound my age!” exclaimed Mr. Wordley.  “Let me tell you, sir, your age does not excuse your conduct, which has been that of a heartless and sanctimonious fool.  When I gave that dear child into your care, I had misgivings, and they are fully justified.  Would to God I had never lost sight of her!  The dearest, the sweetest and best—­Oh, let me get out, or I shall say something offensive.”

As he made for the door, John Heron cleared his throat and stammered: 

“I forgive you, sir.  You will regret this exhibition of brutal violence, and I shall put up a prayer—­”

“Don’t you dare to put up any prayer for me!” cried Mr. Wordley.  “I should be afraid something would happen to me.  I need not ask why she left your house.  It’s quite evident enough.  I’ve nothing more to say to you.”

“One moment,” said John Heron, with an attempt at dignity; “perhaps you will be good enough to inform me of the nature of the communication that you have for my cousin Ida.”

Mr. Wordley looked as if he were going to choke.