“That’ll do,” said Lawrence.

“And struck her, that he did, which you ought to know,” Catherine persisted eagerly:  “put his arm out through the door and gave her a great blow! and it’s not the first time neither.  Many’s the night when I’ve undressed my lady but perhaps you’ve seen for yourself—­”

She stopped short and put her hand over her mouth.

“Go and get the things,” said Lawrence, “then wait for me in the yard.”

Catherine retired in disorder and Lawrence followed her out.  He found Barry waiting to speak to him.  “Where’s my man?” Lawrence asked.  “Send him to me, will you?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but are you going to speak to Major Clowes?”

“Why?”

Barry looked down.  “His orders was that you weren’t to be admitted, sir.”

“How is Major Clowes?”

“Very queer.  I took it on myself to send for the doctor, but he was out:  but they sent word that he’d step round as soon as he came in.  I’d have liked to catch Mr. Val, but he slipped off while I was waiting on the Major.”

“But Major Clowes isn’t ill?”

“Oh no, sir.  But I don’t care for so much responsibility.”

“Shall I have a look at him?”

“Oh no,” a much more decided negative.  “I wouldn’t go near the Major, sir, not if I was you.”

“Why, what’s the matter with him?” Lawrence asked curiously.  But Barry refused to commit himself beyond repeating that the Major was very queer, and after promising to send Val to the rescue Lawrence dismissed him, as Gaston came hurrying up.  Something suspiciously like a grin twinkled over the little Frenchman’s face when he found his master waiting for him on the sill of Caroline’s pantry, silhouetted against row on row of shining glass and silver, and wearing at noon-day the purple and fine linen, the white waistcoat and thin boots of last night.  But his French breeding triumphed and he remained, except for that one furtive twinkle, the conscientious valet, nescient and urbane.  Lawrence did not give him even so much explanation as he had given Catherine.  “Is there a back staircase?” he asked, and then, “Take me up by it.  I’m going to my room.”

Gaston led the way through the servants’ hall.  Lawrence, following, had to fight down a nausea of humiliation that was almost physical:  he had never before done anything that so sickened him as this sneaking progress through the kitchen quarters in another man’s house.  At length Gaston, holding up a finger to enjoin silence, brought him out on the main landing overlooking the hall.

There was no carpet on the polished floor but Lawrence when he chose could tread like a cat.  He stepped to the balustrade.  It was as dark as a dark evening, for the great doors were still fast shut, and what scanty light filtered through the painted panes was absorbed, not reflected, by raftered roof, panelled walls, and Jacobean stair.  But as he grew used to the gloom he could distinguish Bernard’s couch and the powerful prostrate figure stretched out on it like a living bar.  Bernard’s arms were crossed over his breast:  his features were the colour of stone:  he might have been dead.