general carden was in his smoking-room when the opening of the door by goring heralded the entrance of tommy lancing and a stout, elderly priest.

somewhat perplexed, general carden put down the book he had been reading, and rose from his chair to greet them. true, tommy occasionally favoured him with his presence at this hour, but why should he drag along with him a man whom he had only once met, and that man, moreover, a priest? he appeared, too, somewhat embarrassed. it was the elder man who was at his ease.

“we came to see you, general,” said tommy, shaking hands and introducing father o’sullivan, “because we thought—that is, muriel—well, something unusual has happened.” neither speech nor introduction was made after tommy’s customary suave fashion.

“ah!” said general carden, eyeing them both keenly, while his heart gave a little anxious throb. unusual news can easily portend bad news. also tommy’s manner was a trifle disconcerting.

“it is,” said tommy, “about your son.”

“ah!” said general carden again, this time with a quick intake of his breath. he put his hand up to the mantelpiece. the floor seemed not quite so solid as he would desire it to be.

“he,” blurted out tommy quickly, “was—was not guilty. father o’sullivan will tell you.”

thus in the simplest, most commonplace of language can momentous announcements be made. it would seem as though there should be a grander language, a finer flow of words, for these statements and yet in such bald fashion are they invariably announced.

there was no question now but that the room was certainly revolving. presently it steadied itself, and general carden knew that he was sitting by the fire, the two men opposite to him, and that the old priest was talking. gradually his mind adjusted itself to facts: he heard and understood the words that were being spoken. when they stopped there was a silence. there is so astonishingly little to be said at such times, though the tittle-tattle of small events will supply us with endless talk.

“thank you for coming to tell me,” said general carden gravely, and he pushed a box of cigars towards the two men. again silence.

presently tommy began to talk, quietly, easily, now. he put forward muriel’s suggestions, her advice, her plans. he explained minutely the scheme she had proposed.

general carden listened intent.

“it is like her kind-heartedness to suggest it,” he said, as tommy paused, “and yours to follow it up. i have no notion where he is, nor—nor have his publishers. i happened to ask them the other day.” he made the statement with an airy carelessness of manner.

“then,” said tommy with a firmness which [pg 286]muriel would distinctly have approved, “i start to-morrow.”

thus definitely was the decision given.

the two stayed a while longer, tommy supplying most of the remarks made—conversation it can not be termed.

general carden kept falling into abstracted silences, in which his eyes sought the fire and his hand pulled gently at his white moustache. father o’sullivan watched him from under his shaggy eyebrows. he was not a priest for nothing. he knew well enough how to read the vast unsaid between the little said, and the workings of the reserved old mind were as clear as daylight to him.

presently they rose to depart. in the hall general carden spoke.

“if,” he said, addressing himself to father o’sullivan, “you would let me know the day and hour of young ellerslie’s funeral i should be obliged. he was a friend of my son’s.”

and in those words the old man blotted out, forgave, the wrong hugh had done, as peter himself would have wished.

an hour later goring came in with a tray on which were a tumbler and a jug of hot water.

general carden looked up. “which wine did i drink to-night?” he demanded.

“the ’54 port, sir,” replied goring respectfully.

“hmm!” general carden beat a faint, delicate tattoo with his fingers on the table. “i thought so. how much more is there?”

“about eight bottles, sir. seven or eight i should say.”

general carden coughed. “you need not use any more of it at present, not till”—he coughed again—“mr. peter comes home.”

the most perfectly trained of butlers might, perhaps, be excused a slight start at such a statement, taking into consideration, of course, previous circumstances. goring unquestionably started. then the mask was on again, impassive, impenetrable.

general carden still kept up that light tattoo. he had a statement to make. in all fairness to peter it had to be made. it was, however, peculiarly difficult to put into words.

he cleared his throat. “there was,” he said, gazing hard at his fingers, “a mistake. mr. [pg 288]peter was shielding some one else.” the tattoo stopped. the words were out.

and then the man broke through the butler. the mask of impassivity vanished.

“lord, sir!” his voice was triumphant, “and mightn’t we ’ave known it, if only we ’adn’t been such a couple of blithering old fools.”

general carden stared. “ahem! goring—really, goring, i—” he was for a moment dumbfounded, helpless in his amazement. then suddenly the amazement gave way before a humorous smile, his old eyes twinkled, and he brought his hand down on the table with a thump. “by god!” he cried; “you’re right.”

and goring left the room choking with varied emotions, but pulling down his waistcoat with dignified pleasure the while.