"When Mr. Petrie comes, show him to me here," Henry gave orders to Bates.

It was late in the afternoon and he was alone in the rose enclosure—the library had proved too stifling. He had managed to attend the afternoon\'s drill, and discharge without comment the duties required of him by his guests. The Bishop and a great number of visitors were still in the park. Diana, on the plea of illness, had remained in her room, but had sent word that she would be down at tea-time. Absorbed in his own reflections Henry hardly observed that Jim was passing the entire day in camp with the troops. That the farce of the day\'s pleasure was nearly over, was his most comforting thought; a few hours more and the house-party would disperse. If only Petrie would come.

"No news, good news;" over and over he tried to comfort himself with the old saw.

Lady Elizabeth, if she had remembered, would have warned him of the intended presentation, but the night with its torturing memories had made her forget utterly the surprise arranged by the Bishop and Sir John.

Henry looked at his watch—it was past four. Would Petrie never come? He cursed the hour in which he had listened to the tempting voice that urged him to speculate in a mine controlled by Hobbes. He remembered the night he had finally agreed to enter into the game, and—then, a loss here and an unexpected blow there had disastrously crippled his resources.

Money had been necessary to protect the already invested fortune. The Fund was under his control—Why not use it temporarily? He used the word "borrow" to his mother, and he had tried for weeks to ease his mind with the same word, but he knew that the world had an ugly name for such "borrowing." Wherever he turned he could see five blazing letters—the flaming stigma was beginning to burn in his brain. Was there no way of protecting himself a little longer? He closed his eyes and tried to think.

No, it would be impossible to evade the request of the committee. To elude the young curate, Chiswick, had not been difficult. On the plea of his devotion to the cause, he had succeeded in controlling all the papers and accounts for the past week, but now—a cold perspiration began to ooze over his body; it was followed by hot flashes that tormented him like the five fantastic little demons ever before his vision, as they twisted, contorted, shaped, and reshaped themselves into one hideous imputation. An hour before, he had promised to give to his secretary the keys of his desk; to put off the auditing any longer would have aroused suspicion. His only hope now was that perhaps the absorbing interest in the last day of the manoeuvres would give him another twenty-four hours leeway. If Petrie brought reassuring news he might be able to realize the necessary amount and prevent discovery. He poured himself some brandy. Just as he raised the glass, Bates announced:

"Mr. Petrie, my lord."

The glass slipped to the ground; Bates stooped to remove the fragments. Johnston Petrie advanced with perfect composure and shook Henry\'s trembling hand.

"Your lordship," he said. Then both men waited until Bates disappeared towards his quarters. To Henry the moment seemed an eternity.

They were alone, and yet neither spoke. Through Petrie\'s mind ran a memory of having stood there long ago and conferred with the late Earl, while the man before him as a boy sat on his father\'s knee. He knew nothing of Henry\'s use of the Fund; he only knew that he was bringing news of a big loss to his client. Henry\'s face as he grasped Petrie to steady himself, told him something of the importance attached to his report.

"Well, Petrie, well? Speak—man. Don\'t you see you are killing me? Hobbes—what of Hobbes?"

Truthfully, Petrie answered: "Hobbes is a fugitive—the whole scheme was a gigantic swindle. Every penny invested is irremediably lost."

Almost before he had finished speaking, from the various side-paths leading towards them came the sound of voices. Henry made a staggering movement as though to escape towards the house, but his way was blocked by Sadie Jones, who had gone at the Bishop\'s request to fetch Diana. As Henry stared at the advancing groups he saw himself already convicted. What was the meaning of this unusual gathering of officers and men silently falling into lines behind the circle of friends who surrounded him? He supported himself by his chair. Petrie quickly realized the situation as he saw a sergeant approaching with an open case containing the gift of the big loving-cup. He tried to reach Henry, but Lady Elizabeth anticipated him. She had recalled too late the demonstration arranged to take place at tea-time. There was a moment\'s hush. A little way off the servants were gathering to witness the honor shown to their master, and the enclosure about Henry was quickly crowded.

Henry clung to his support. He could distinguish all the faces quite plainly, except Jim\'s. Where was Jim? Muffled, as though coming from a long distance, he heard the Bishop\'s voice:

"My lord, I am so overwhelmed with the significance of this delightful occasion and my own imperfections as a speaker, that I could have wished my task to have fallen into better hands. But when I was approached in the sacred name of charity and of that noble cause so dear to all our hearts, the relief and succor of the widows and orphans of the brave men who have given their lives in the smoke of battle, I felt I ought to be sustained by your own noble example. I will not dwell on the lofty nature of your lordship\'s services to the Fund—"

Henry\'s impassiveness began to desert him: "Liar! liar!" shrieked the little demons as they came in a swarm towards him. He closed his eyes.

"In accepting this very beautiful loving-cup," droned the Bishop.

But it had gone too far. His greatest pride—his regiment, his men, their Fund—was his greatest dishonor. Better discovery—anything rather than this awful continuation. He swayed—Petrie caught him; there was a moment\'s surprised ejaculation from the crowd.

Lord Kerhill was ill. The heat had been intense during the afternoon drill. It was noticed then that he was unwell—and so the tactful excuses went from one to another as Henry was assisted by Petrie to the library. But Lady Elizabeth, with some hurried orders to Petrie, turned to the assembled guests.

"My lord Bishop, some one has said \'speech is but broken light falling on the depths of the unspeakable.\' This in thanks for the great honor done our house. I am sure my son\'s inability to reply is more due to your eloquent tribute than to his slight indisposition. Won\'t you allow the tea to be served? Lord Kerhill will, I am sure, join you very shortly."

Imperiously she took command of the situation, and soon the waiting servants were dispensing tea, while the guests discussed the beauties of the cup that lay in its velvet case, as if nothing unusual had happened. Then quietly she made her way to Henry. She found him alone, and motioned him to follow her into a small room adjoining the library; it had been a prayer-closet in the past for a devout Kerhill, but during recent years it had been used as a smoking-den, with old sporting-prints and curious whips and spurs in place of the prie-dieu and the crucifix. Drawing the bolt across the oak door, Elizabeth Kerhill turned and faced her son.

"Henry, what is it?"

"The South American Security Company—a swindle. Hobbes a fugitive—for me exposure."

Lady Elizabeth realized that if salvation were to come to him it must be through her.

"To prevent this exposure, you must not lose your self-control. We must think—not feel—think what we can do," she began.

And Henry answered, calmly, "I must blow my brains out."

"Dear God!" her heart prayed as she watched him. His dull impassiveness frightened her more than any madness of rebellion; he meant this—it was no idle boast. Had she only delayed, not prevented, the contemplated tragedy of the night before? Tightly she buckled on her armor of mother-love. She must fight—fight him—the world, if necessary, but she must win. She put all the sickening hurt and broken courage behind her. She must obtain help—from whom? In the mean time she must distract and arouse him from this awful apathy of resignation to his disgrace. While these thoughts were flashing through her brain she answered:

"If—" she paused, she could not say the word. "If—that—" she half whispered, "would cover up the shame—but it wouldn\'t. No; no Earl of Kerhill must go into history as a—"

"Thief!" Henry supplied the word. It was a relief to speak it. "You might as well say it—no one else will hesitate to do so."

His voice shook, but he still maintained his stoicism.

"You had no intention to do wrong, my poor boy, I know it, but no one will believe that but your mother. It\'s my fault too in some way, I suppose." The agonized mother\'s consciousness of failure in shaping her child\'s character broke from her. "I\'d willingly take the blame on my shoulders if I could."

He held her hands tighter. She knelt beside him.

"Let\'s see. No one has had anything to do with the Fund except you, Chiswi............