She went along the path and across the meadow.  Thresk watched her go and saw the light spring up in her room.  Then he closed the window and drew the curtain.  Mr. Hazlewood had gone.  Thresk wondered what the morrow would bring.  After all, Stella was right.  Youth was a graceful thing of high-sounding words and impetuous thoughts, but like many other graceful things it could be hard and cruel.  Its generosity did not come from any wide outlook on a world where there is a good deal to be said for everything.  It was rather a matter of physical health than judgment.  Yes, he was glad Dick Hazlewood was half his way through the thirties.  For himself—­well, he knew his business.  It was to be kind.  He turned off the lights and went to bed.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE VERDICT

“Six, seven, eight,” said Mr. Hazlewood, counting the letters which he had already written since breakfast and placing them on the salver which Hubbard was holding out to him.  He was a very different man this morning from the Mr. Hazlewood of yesterday.  He shone, complacent and serene.  He leaned back in his chair and gazed mildly at the butler.  “There must be an answer to the problem which I put to you, Hubbard.”

Hubbard wrinkled his brows in thought and succeeded only in looking a hundred and ten years old.  He had the melancholy look of a moulting bird.  He shook his head and drooped.

“No doubt, sir,” he said.

“But as far as you are concerned,” Mr. Hazlewood continued briskly, “you can throw no light upon it?”

“Not a glimmer, sir.”

Mr. Hazlewood was disappointed and with him disappointment was petulance.

“That is unlike you, Hubbard,” he said, “for sometimes after I have been deliberating for days over some curious and perplexing conundrum, you have solved it the moment it has been put to you.”

Hubbard drooped still lower.  He began the droop as a bow of acknowledgment but forgot to raise his head again.

“It is very good of you, sir,” he said.  He seemed oppressed by the goodness of Mr. Hazlewood.

“Yet you are not clever, Hubbard!  Not at all clever.”

“No, sir.  I know my place,” returned the butler, and Mr. Hazlewood continued with a little envy.

“You must have some wonderful gift of insight which guides you straight to the inner meaning of things.”

“It’s just common-sense, sir,” said Hubbard.

“But I haven’t got it,” cried Mr. Hazlewood.  “How’s that?”

“You don’t need it, sir.  You are a gentleman,” Hubbard replied, and carried the letters to the door.  There, however, he stopped.  “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but a new parcel of The Prison Walls has arrived this morning.  Shall I unpack it?”

Mr. Hazlewood frowned and scratched his ear.

“Well—­er—­no, Hubbard—­no,” he said with a trifle of discomfort.  “I am not sure indeed that The Prison Walls is not almost one of my mistakes.  We all make mistakes, Hubbard.  I think you shall burn that parcel, Hubbard—­somewhere where it won’t be noticed.”