“What!  All in the dark?”

“He’d lighted a candle, if you please!  I’d left a candle-stick and a box of matches handy because I hadn’t finished that shelving.”

“Well!” Constance murmured.  “I can’t think how ever he dared go there all alone!”

“Can’t you?” said Mr. Povey, cynically.  “I can.  He simply did it to frighten us.”

“Oh, Cyril!” Constance admonished the child.  “Cyril!”

The child showed no emotion.  His face was an enigma.  It might have hidden sullenness or mere callous indifference, or a perfect unconsciousness of sin.

“Give him to me,” said Constance.

“I’ll look after him this evening,” said Samuel, grimly.

“But you can’t wash him,” said Constance, her relief yielding to apprehension.

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Povey.  And he moved off.

“But Sam—­”

“I’ll look after him, I tell you!” Mr. Povey repeated, threateningly.

“But what are you going to do?” Constance asked with fear.

“Well,” said Mr. Povey, “has this sort of thing got to be dealt with, or hasn’t it?” He departed upstairs.

Constance overtook him at the door of Cyril’s bedroom.

Mr. Povey did not wait for her to speak.  His eyes were blazing.

“See here!” he admonished her cruelly.  “You get away downstairs, mother!”

And he disappeared into the bedroom with his vile and helpless victim.

A moment later he popped his head out of the door.  Constance was disobeying him.  He stepped into the passage and shut the door so that Cyril should not hear.

“Now please do as I tell you,” he hissed at his wife.  “Don’t let’s have a scene, please.”

She descended, slowly, weeping.  And Mr. Povey retired again to the place of execution.

Amy nearly fell on the top of Constance with a final tray of things from the drawing-room.  And Constance had to tell the girl that Cyril was found.  Somehow she could not resist the instinct to tell her also that the master had the affair in hand.  Amy then wept.

After about an hour Mr. Povey at last reappeared.  Constance was trying to count silver teaspoons in the parlour.

“He’s in bed now,” said Mr. Povey, with a magnificent attempt to be nonchalant.  “You mustn’t go near him.”

“But have you washed him?” Constance whimpered.

“I’ve washed him,” replied the astonishing Mr. Povey.

“What have you done to him?”

“I’ve punished him, of course,” said Mr. Povey, like a god who is above human weaknesses.  “What did you expect me to do?  Someone had to do it.”

Constance wiped her eyes with the edge of the white apron which she was wearing over her new silk dress.  She surrendered; she accepted the situation; she made the best of it.  And all the evening was spent in dismally and horribly pretending that their hearts were beating as one.  Mr. Povey’s elaborate, cheery kindliness was extremely painful.