“Nothing, thanks; it is a melancholy ending, poor fellow!  You must come to the study with me, Doctor Torvey, and talk a little bit more; and—­very sad, doctor—­and you must have a glass of sherry, or some port—­the port used not to be bad here; I don’t take it—­but very melancholy it is—­bring some port and sherry; and, Mrs. Julaper, you’ll be good enough to see that everything that should be done here is looked to; and let Marlin and the men have supper and something to drink.  You have been too long in your wet clothes, Marlin.”

So, with gracious words all round, he led the Doctor to the library where he had been sitting, and was affable and hospitable, and told him his own version of all that had passed between him and Philip Feltram, and presented himself in an amiable point of view, and pleased the Doctor with his port and flatteries—­for he could not afford to lose anyone’s good word just now; and the Doctor was a bit of a gossip, and in most houses in that region, in one character or another, every three months in the year.

So in due time the Doctor drove back to Golden Friars, with a high opinion of Sir Bale, and higher still of his port, and highest of all of himself:  in the best possible humour with the world, not minding the storm that blew in his face, and which he defied in good-humoured mock-heroics spoken in somewhat thick accents, and regarding the thunder and lightning as a lively gala of fireworks; and if there had been a chance of finding his cronies still in the George and Dragon, he would have been among them forthwith, to relate the tragedy of the night, and tell what a good fellow, after all, Sir Bale was; and what a fool, at best, poor Philip Feltram.

But the George was quiet for that night.  The thunder rolled over voiceless chambers; and the lights had been put out within the windows, on whose multitudinous small panes the lightning glared.  So the Doctor went home to Mrs. Torvey, whom he charmed into good-humoured curiosity by the tale of wonder he had to relate.

Sir Bale’s qualms were symptomatic of something a little less sublime and more selfish than conscience.  He was not sorry that Philip Feltram was out of the way.  His lips might begin to babble inconveniently at any time, and why should not his mouth be stopped? and what stopper so effectual as that plug of clay which fate had introduced?  But he did not want to be charged with the odium of the catastrophe.  Every man cares something for the opinion of his fellows.  And seeing that Feltram had been well liked, and that his death had excited a vehement commiseration, Sir Bale did not wish it to be said that he had made the house too hot to hold him, and had so driven him to extremity.

Sir Bale’s first agitation had subsided.  It was now late, he had written many letters, and he was tired.  It was not wonderful, then, that having turned his lounging-chair to the fire, he should have fallen asleep in it, as at last he did.