“Eh?” said Sir Beverley.

A queer little dancing gleam leaped up in Piers’ eyes—­the gleam that had invariably heralded some piece of especial devilry in the days of his boyhood.

“I told him she was his for the asking, sir,” he said coolly, “and promised not to flirt with her any more till they were safely married.”

“Damn you!” exclaimed Sir Beverley violently and without warning.

He had a glass of wine in front of him, and with the words his fingers gripped the stem.  In another second he would have hurled the liquid full in Piers’ face; but Piers was too quick for him.  Quick as lightning, his own hand shot out across the corner of the table and grasped the old man’s wrist.

“No, sir!  No!” he said sternly.

They glared into each other’s eyes, and Sir Beverley uttered a furious oath; but after the first instinctive effort to free himself he did no more.

At the end of possibly thirty seconds Piers took his hand away.  He pushed back his chair in the same movement and rose.

“Shall we talk in the library?” he said.  “This room is hot.”

Sir Beverley raised the wine-glass to his lips with a hand that shook, and drained it deliberately.

“Yes,” he said then, “We will—­talk in the library.”

He got up with an agility that he seldom displayed, and turned to the door.  As he went he glanced up suddenly at the softly mocking face on the wall, and a sharp spasm contracted his harsh features.  But he scarcely paused.  Without further words he left the room; and Piers followed, light of tread, behind him.

The study windows stood wide open to the night.  Piers crossed the room and quietly closed them.  Then, without haste and without hesitation, he came to the table and stopped before it.

“I never intended to marry Ina Rose,” he said.  “I was only amusing myself—­and her.”

“The devil you were!” ejaculated Sir Beverley.

Piers went on with the utmost steadiness.  “We are not in the least suited to one another, and we have the sense to realize it.  The next time Guyes asks her, I believe she will have him.”

“Sense!” roared Sir Beverley.  “Do you dare to talk to me of sense, you—­you blind fool?  Mighty lot of sense you can boast of!  And what the devil does it matter whether you suit one another—­as you call it—­or not, so long as you keep the whip-hand?  You’ll tell me next that you’re not—­in love with her, I suppose?”

The bitterness of the last words seemed to shake him from head to foot.  He looked at Piers with the memory of a past torment in his eyes.  And because of it Piers turned away his own.

“It’s quite true, sir,” he said, in a low voice.  “I am not—­in love with her.  I never have been.”

Sir Beverley’s fist crashed down upon the table.  “Love!” he thundered.  “Love!  Do you want to make me sick?  I tell you, sir, I would sooner see you in your coffin than married to a woman with whom you imagined yourself in love.  Oh, I know what you have in your mind.  I’ve known for a long time.  You’re caught in the toils of that stiff-necked, scheming Judy at the Vicarage, who—­”