He turned his eyes upon his grandfather’s face—­those soft Italian eyes of his so suggestive of hidden fire.  “I wasn’t—­dreaming,” he said slowly.  “I wonder why you think Adderley ought to be hanged.”

“Because he’s a murderer,” snapped Sir Beverley.

“Yes; but—­” said Piers, and became silent as though he were following out some train of thought.

“Go on, boy!  Finish!” commanded Sir Beverley.  “I detest a sentence left in the middle.”

“I was only thinking,” said Piers deliberately, “that hanging in my opinion is much the easier sentence of the two.  I should ask to be hanged if I were Adderley.”

“Would you indeed?” Sir Beverley sounded supremely contemptuous.

But Piers did not seem to notice.  “Besides, there are so many murderers in the world,” he said, “though it’s only the few who get punished.  I’m sorry for the few myself.  Its damned bad luck, human nature being what it is.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sir Beverley.

“All right; let’s talk about something else,” said Piers.  “Caesar had a glorious mill with that Irish terrier brute at the Vicarage this afternoon.  I couldn’t separate ’em, so I just joined in.  We’d have been at it now if we had been left to our own devices.”  He broke into his sudden boyish laugh.  “But a kind lady came out of the Vicarage garden and flung the contents of a bedroom jug over the three of us.  Rather plucky of her, what?  I’m afraid I wasn’t over-complimentary at the moment, but I’ve had time since to appreciate her tact and presence of mind.  I’m going over to thank her to-morrow.”

“Who was it?” growled Sir Beverley suspiciously.  “Not that little white owl, Mrs. Lorimer?”

“Mrs. Lorimer!  Great Scott, no!  She’d have squealed and run to the Reverend Stephen for protection.  No, this was a woman, not an owl.  Her name is Denys—­Mrs. Denys she was careful to inform me.  They’ve started a mother’s help at the Vicarage.  None too soon I should say.  Who wouldn’t be a mother’s help in that establishment?”

Sir Beverley uttered a dry laugh.  “Daresay she knows how to feather her own nest.  Most of ’em do.”

“She knows how to keep her head in an emergency, anyhow,” remarked Piers.

“Feline instinct,” jeered Sir Beverley.

Piers looked across with a laugh in his dark eyes.  “And feline pluck, sir,” he maintained.

Sir Beverley scowled at him.  He could never brook an argument.  “Oh, get away, Piers!” he said.  “You talk like a fool.”

Piers turned his whole attention to devouring crumpets, and there fell a lengthy silence.  He rose finally to set down his empty plate and help himself to some more tea.

“That stuff is poisonous by now,” said Sir Beverley.

“It won’t poison me,” said Piers.

He drank it, and returned to the hearth-rug.  “I suppose I may smoke?” he said, with a touch of restraint.