Lord Belpher, for example, though he limped rather painfully, showed nothing of the baffled fury which was reducing his weight at the rate of ounces a day.  His uncle Francis, the Bishop, when he tackled him in the garden on the subject of Intemperance—­for Uncle Francis, like thousands of others, had taken it for granted, on reading the report of the encounter with the policeman and Percy’s subsequent arrest, that the affair had been the result of a drunken outburst—­had no inkling of the volcanic emotions that seethed in his nephew’s bosom.  He came away from the interview, indeed, feeling that the boy had listened attentively and with a becoming regret, and that there was hope for him after all, provided that he fought the impulse.  He little knew that, but for the conventions (which frown on the practice of murdering bishops), Percy would gladly have strangled him with his bare hands and jumped upon the remains.

Lord Belpher’s case, inasmuch as he took himself extremely seriously and was not one of those who can extract humour even from their own misfortunes, was perhaps the hardest which comes under our notice; but his sister Maud was also experiencing mental disquietude of no mean order.  Everything had gone wrong with Maud.  Barely a mile separated her from George, that essential link in her chain of communication with Geoffrey Raymond; but so thickly did it bristle with obstacles and dangers that it might have been a mile of No Man’s Land.  Twice, since the occasion when the discovery of Lord Marshmoreton at the cottage had caused her to abandon her purpose of going in and explaining everything to George, had she attempted to make the journey; and each time some trifling, maddening accident had brought about failure.  Once, just as she was starting, her aunt Augusta had insisted on joining her for what she described as “a nice long walk”; and the second time, when she was within a bare hundred yards of her objective, some sort of a cousin popped out from nowhere and forced his loathsome company on her.

Foiled in this fashion, she had fallen back in desperation on her second line of attack.  She had written a note to George, explaining the whole situation in good, clear phrases and begging him as a man of proved chivalry to help her.  It had taken up much of one afternoon, this note, for it was not easy to write; and it had resulted in nothing.  She had given it to Albert to deliver and Albert had returned empty-handed.

“The gentleman said there was no answer, m’lady!”

“No answer!  But there must be an answer!”

“No answer, m’lady.  Those was his very words,” stoutly maintained the black-souled boy, who had destroyed the letter within two minutes after it had been handed to him.  He had not even bothered to read it.  A deep, dangerous, dastardly stripling this, who fought to win and only to win.  The ticket marked “R.  Byng” was in his pocket, and in his ruthless heart a firm resolve that R. Byng and no other should have the benefit of his assistance.