There was but one memory which saved him from feeling that this was the very end of things.  That was the memory of Broadmorlands.  While a man had a weapon left, even though it could not save him, he might pay up with it—­get almost even.  The whole Vanderpoel lot could be plunged neck deep in a morass which would leave mud enough sticking to them, even if their money helped them to prevent its entirely closing over their heads.  He could attend to that, and, after he had set it well going, he could get out.  There were India, South Africa, Australia—­a dozen places that would do.  And then he would remember Betty Vanderpoel, and curse horribly under the bed clothes.  It was the memory of Betty which outdid all others in its power to torment.

On the morning of the fifth day the Duke of Broadmorlands received a note, which he read with somewhat annoyed curiosity.  A certain Sir Nigel Anstruthers, whom it appeared he ought to be able to recall, was in the neighbourhood, and wished to see him on a parochial matter of interest.  “Parochial matter” was vague, and so was the Duke’s recollection of the man who addressed him.  If his memory served him rightly, he had met him in a country house in Somersetshire, and had heard that he was the acquaintance of the disreputable eldest son.  What could a person of that sort have to say of parochial matters?  The Duke considered, and then, in obedience to a rigorous conscience, decided that one ought, perhaps, to give him half an hour.

There was that in the intruder’s aspect, when he arrived in the afternoon, which produced somewhat the effect of shock.  In the first place, a man in his unconcealable physical condition had no right to be out of his bed.  Though he plainly refused to admit the fact, his manner of bearing himself erect, and even with a certain touch of cool swagger, was, it was evident, achieved only by determined effort.  He looked like a man who had not yet recovered from some evil fever.  Since the meeting in Somersetshire he had aged more than the year warranted.  Despite his obstinate fight with himself it was obvious that he was horribly shaky.  A disagreeable scratch or cut, running from cheek to neck, did not improve his personal appearance.

He pleased his host no more than he had pleased him at their first encounter; he, in fact, repelled him strongly, by suggesting a degree of abnormality of mood which was smoothed over by an attempt at entire normality of manner.  The Duke did not present an approachable front as, after Anstruthers had taken a chair, he sat and examined him with bright blue old eyes set deep on either side of a dominant nose and framed over by white eyebrows.  No, Nigel Anstruthers summed him up, it would not be easy to open the matter with the old fool.  He held himself magnificently aloof, with that lack of modernity in his sense of place which, even at this late day, sometimes expressed itself here and there in the manner of the feudal survival.