It was unfortunately said; the more as the tutor in order to keep his eye on the door, by which he expected Mr. Pomeroy to re-enter, had turned his back on the staircase.  The lie was scarcely off his lips when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and, twisting him round with a jerk, brought him face to face with an old friend.  The tutor’s eyes met those of Mr. Dunborough, he uttered one low shriek, and turned as white as paper.  He knew that Nemesis had overtaken him.

But not how heavy a Nemesis!  For he could not know that the landlord of the Angel owned a restive colt, and no farther back than the last fair had bought a new whip; nor that that very whip lay at this moment where the landlord had dropped it, on a chest so near to Mr. Dunborough’s hand that the tutor never knew how he became possessed of it.  Only he saw it imminent, and would have fallen in sheer terror, his coward’s knees giving way under him, if Mr. Dunborough had not driven him back against the wall with a violence that jarred the teeth in his head.

‘You liar!’ the infuriated listener cried; ‘you lying toad!’ and shook him afresh with each sentence.  ’She has run away from her friends, has she?  With an Irish adventurer, eh?  And you are her father?  And your name is Thomas?  Thomas, eh!  Well, if you do not this instant tell me where she is, I’ll Thomas you!  Now, come!  One!  Two!  Three!’

In the last words seemed a faint promise of mercy; alas! it was fallacious.  Mr. Thomasson, the lash impending over him, had time to utter one cry; no more.  Then the landlord’s supple cutting-whip, wielded by a vigorous hand, wound round the tenderest part of his legs—­for at the critical instant Mr. Dunborough dragged him from the wall—­and with a gasping shriek of pain, pain such as he had not felt since boyhood, Mr. Thomasson leapt into the air.  As soon as his breath returned, he strove frantically to throw himself down; but struggle as he might, pour forth screams, prayers, execrations, as he might, all was vain.  The hour of requital had come.  The cruel lash fell again and again, raising great wheals on his pampered body:  now he clutched Mr. Dunborough’s arm only to be shaken off; now he grovelled on the floor; now he was plucked up again, now an ill-directed cut marked his cheek.  Twice the landlord, in pity and fear for the man’s life, tried to catch Mr. Dunborough’s arm and stay the punishment; once William did the same—­for ten seconds of this had filled the hall with staring servants.  But Mr. Dunborough’s arm and the whirling whip kept all at a distance; nor was it until a tender-hearted housemaid ran in at risk of her beauty, and clutched his wrist and hung on it, that he tossed the whip away, and allowed Mr. Thomasson to drop, a limp moaning rag on the floor.

‘For shame!’ the girl cried hysterically.  ’You blackguard!  You cruel blackguard!’

‘’Tis he’s the blackguard, my dear!’ the honourable Mr. Dunborough answered, panting, but in the best of tempers.  ’Bring me a tankard of something; and put that rubbish outside, landlord.  He has got no more than he deserved, my dear.’