I leave you to imagine his feelings.  In one wild instant the scene exploded on his senses.  He staggered back against the door, securely pinning the retreating page between it and the doorpost, and denuding the Goodwyn-Sandys’ livery of half a dozen buttons.  The four distracted visitors started up as if to escape by the window.  Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys advanced.

She was white to the lips.  A close observer might have read the hunted look that for one brief moment swept over her face.  But when she spoke her words were cold and calm.

“You wish to see my husband, Mr.—?” She hesitated over the name.

“Not in the least,” stammered Mr. Fogo.

There was an awful silence, during which he stared blankly around on the ladies.

“Then may I ask—?”

“I desired to see Gerald—­I mean, Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys—­but—­”

“I am Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.  Would you mind stating your business?”

Mr. Fogo started, dropped his hat, and leant back against the door again.

“You!”

“Certainly.”  Her mouth worked slightly, but her eyes were steady.

“You are she that—­was—­once—­Geraldine—­O’Halloran?”

“Certainly.”

“Excuse me, madam,” said Mr. Fogo, picking up his hat and addressing Mrs. Simpson politely, “but the mole on your chin annoys me.”

“Sir!”

“Annoys me excessively.  May I ask, was it a birth-mark?”

“He is mad!” screamed the ladies, starting up and wringing their hands.  “Oh, help! help!”

Mr. Fogo looked from one to another, and passed his hand wearily over his eyes.

“You are right,” he murmured; “I fancy—­do you know—­that I must be—­ slightly—­mad.  Pray excuse me.  Would one of you mind seeing me home?” he asked with a plaintive smile.

His eyes wandered to Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys, who stood with one hand resting on the table, while the other pointed to the door.

“Help! help!” screamed the ladies.

Without another word he opened the door and tottered out into the passage.  At the foot of the stairs he met the Honourable Frederic, who had been attracted by the screams.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Fogo; “don’t trouble.  I shall be better out in the open air.  There are women in there”—­he pointed towards the drawing-room—­“and one with a mole.  I daresay it’s all right—­ but it seemed to me a very big mole.”

And leaving the Honourable Frederic to gasp, he staggered from the house.

What happened in the drawing-room of “The Bower” after he left it will never be known, for the ladies of Troy are silent on the point.

It was ten o’clock at night, the hour when men may cull the bloom of sleep.  Already the moon rode in a serene heaven, and, looking in at the Club window, saw the Admiral and Lawyer Pellow—­“male feriatos Troas”—­busy with a mild game of ecarte.  There were not enough to make up a loo to-night, for Sam and Mr. Moggridge were absent, and so—­more unaccountably—­was the Honourable Frederic.  The moon was silent, and only she, peering through the blinds of “The Bower,” could see Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys hastily packing their boxes; or beneath the ladder, by the Admiral’s quay-door, a figure stealthily unmooring the Admiral’s boat.