Dinner over, he buried himself in a chair in the library and let his mind roam.  Angry as he was, Ruth’s image still haunted him.  How pretty she was—­how gracefully she moved her arm as she lifted the cups; and the way the hair waved about her temples; and the tones of her voice—­and dear Peter, so kind and thoughtful of him, so careful that he should be introduced to this and that person; and Miss Felicia!  What a great lady she was; and yet he was not a bit afraid of her.  What would they all think of him when the facts of his uncle’s crime came to their ears, and they must come sooner or later.  What, too, would Peter think of him for breaking out on his uncle, which he firmly intended to do as soon as the hour hand reached eleven?  Nor would he mince his words.  That an outrage of this kind could be committed on an unsuspecting man was bad enough, but that it should have taken place in his own uncle’s office, bringing into disrepute his father’s and his own good name, was something he could not tolerate for a moment.  This he intended saying to his uncle in so many plain words; and so leaving our hero with his soul on fire, his mind bent on inflammables, explosives, high-pressures—­anything in fact that once inserted under the solid body of the senior Breen would blow that gentleman into space—­we will betake ourselves to his palatial home.  The dinner being an important one, no expense had been spared.

All day long boys in white aprons had sprung from canvas-covered wagons, dived in Arthur Breen’s kitchen and dived out again after depositing various eatables, drinkables and cookables—­among them six pair of redheads, two saddles of mutton, besides such uncanny things as mushrooms, truffles and the like, all of which had been turned over to the chef, who was expressly engaged for the occasion, and whose white cap—­to quote Parkins—­“Gives a hair to the scullery which reminded him more of ’ome than anything ’e ’ad seen since ’e left ’is lordship’s service.”

Upstairs more wonderful things had been done.  The table of the sepulchral dining-room was trans formed into a bed of tulips, the mantel a parterre of flowers, while the sideboard, its rear packed with the family silver, was guarded by a row of bottles of various sizes, shapes and colors; various degrees of cob webbed shabbiness, too—­containing the priceless vintages which the senior member of the firm of Breen & Co. intended to set before his friends.

Finally, as the dinner hour approached, all the gas jets were ablaze; not only the side lights in the main hall, and the overhead lantern which had shed its rays on Peter’s bald head, but the huge glass chandelier hung in the middle of the satin-upholstered drawing room, as well as the candelabra on the mantel with their imitation wax candles and brass wicks—­every thing, in fact, that could add to the brilliancy of the occasion.