He was a quiet, silent, neutral-tinted man, this lord, with thin lips and heavy eyelids, much given to gardening, and full of home-like habits.  He had at one time been fond of acting, had even rented a theatre in London, and on its boards had first seen Miss Marion Dawson, to whom he had offered his hand, his title, and the third of a county.  Since his marriage his early hobby had become distasteful to him.  Even in private theatricals it was no longer possible to persuade him to exercise the talent which he had often showed that he possessed.  He was happier with a spud and a watering-can among his orchids and chrysanthemums.

It was quite an interesting problem whether he was absolutely devoid of sense, or miserably wanting in spirit.  Did he know his lady’s ways and condone them, or was he a mere blind, doting fool?  It was a point to be discussed over the teacups in snug little drawing-rooms, or with the aid of a cigar in the bow windows of clubs.  Bitter and plain were the comments among men upon his conduct.  There was but one who had a good word to say for him, and he was the most silent member in the smoking-room.  He had seen him break in a horse at the University, and it seemed to have left an impression upon his mind.

But when Douglas Stone became the favourite all doubts as to Lord Sannox’s knowledge or ignorance were set for ever at rest.  There was no subterfuge about Stone.  In his high-handed, impetuous fashion, he set all caution and discretion at defiance.  The scandal became notorious.  A learned body intimated that his name had been struck from the list of its vice-presidents.  Two friends implored him to consider his professional credit.  He cursed them all three, and spent forty guineas on a bangle to take with him to the lady.  He was at her house every evening, and she drove in his carriage in the afternoons.  There was not an attempt on either side to conceal their relations; but there came at last a little incident to interrupt them.

It was a dismal winter’s night, very cold and gusty, with the wind whooping in the chimneys and blustering against the window-panes.  A thin spatter of rain tinkled on the glass with each fresh sough of the gale, drowning for the instant the dull gurgle and drip from the eaves.  Douglas Stone had finished his dinner, and sat by his fire in the study, a glass of rich port upon the malachite table at his elbow.  As he raised it to his lips, he held it up against the lamplight, and watched with the eye of a connoisseur the tiny scales of beeswing which floated in its rich ruby depths.  The fire, as it spurted up, threw fitful lights upon his bald, clear-cut face, with its widely-opened grey eyes, its thick and yet firm lips, and the deep, square jaw, which had something Roman in its strength and its animalism.  He smiled from time to time as he nestled back in his luxurious chair.  Indeed, he had a right to feel well pleased, for, against the advice of six colleagues, he had performed an operation that day of which only two cases were on record, and the result had been brilliant beyond all expectation.  No other man in London would have had the daring to plan, or the skill to execute, such a heroic measure.