Fenn George Manville
Sir Hilton's Sin

Chapter Twenty Two.
In the Fog

“Murder! Now for a row,” thought the groom, as, to his horror, he saw in the moonlight, instead of the barouche and pair with Lady Lisle inside, the dogcart, down from which Sir Hilton was stepping, helped by Syd, while a second dogcart was coming up the drive with a lady on the seat and a big heavy man leading the horse, and the gate clicking loudly as it swung to and fro.

“Beg pardon, Sir Hilton,” cried Mark, eagerly. “Didn’t know you meant to come back to-night. Thought I’d run over and see if all was right at home.”

“Humph!” grunted the baronet, entering the porch and reeling slightly as he raised one hand to his head.

“Steady, uncle!” cried Syd. “Mind the cob, Mark. Lead him away, but come back and take Mr Simpkins’s nag too.”

The boy turned to meet the big, burly man, who drew his vehicle up to the door and stopped to look back.

“Can you help her down, youngster – my boy, I mean?”

“Yes, all right, sir.”

“I can jump down, dad,” cried the occupant of the seat. “Now, Syd, catch me; look out!”

The boy’s intentions were admirable, and the young lady light; but, as Mark afterwards said to Jane, with a chuckle, when he knew all, “Master Syd wasn’t up to her weight.” For, as the young wife alighted, she was caught, but the catcher staggered back, and would have fallen but for the lady’s agility, for she not only saved herself but clung to the boy’s hands, so that he only sat down on the steps.

“Houp-la!” she cried, striking a little attitude.

“Hullo! Hurt?” growled Simpkins.

“No, he’s all right, dad. Ain’t you, Syd dear?”

“Hurt, no,” cried the boy. “But those stones are hard. Come along in.”

“Wait a moment, my gal,” growled the trainer, and he drew his child aside.

“What’s the matter, dad?”

“Nothing. I’m going round to see the mare put up and fed. I shall be in directly. But look here, don’t you commit yourself before I come.”

“Who’s going to?” said the girl, merrily, as she seemed to take the nocturnal excursion as a capital bit of fun.

“Well, I only warn you, my gal. Mind, you’re as good as they are. Don’t you let ’em begin sitting upon you because you’ve got a fine chance.”

“All right, dad. I’m to be a different sort of furniture from that.”

“I dunno what you mean, my gal – some of your larks, I suppose. But just you mind; don’t put it in these here words, but when my orty fine lady begins on you, just you say to her, ses you, ‘None o’ that! I’m as good as you.’”

“What’s he saying, darling?” cried Syd, impatiently.

“Not much, young gentleman; only telling her to mind now you have brought her home as she has her rights.”

Syd caught his young wife’s hands and hurried her into the hall, and from thence into the drawing-room, where he found his uncle impatiently walking up and down.

“Oh, it’s you, Syd,” said the baronet, impatiently. “Call Jane, there’s a confounded cat in the conservatory. Just knocked down one of the pots.”

“All right, uncle,” said the boy. “You sit down there, Molly,” he whispered, “and look here, you must help me when your father comes in. He would drive over, and kept on insisting to me that he couldn’t let me come alone with uncle; but it was only to show off before auntie.”

“Yes, I know; he’s been preaching to me. Where is she?”

“Sitting up for us somewhere, pet,” said Syd. “Here she comes. Back me up, and be nice,” he whispered, “and then make your guv’nor take you home. You know how.”

“Yes, Syd dear,” whispered the girl; “but I’m awful tired, you know.”

“Pst! Oh, it’s you, Jane.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll light that lamp if you’ll stand aside.”

“Oh, yes, do. It’s beastly dark.”

Jane began lighting up and stealing glances full of admiration as she handled match after match slowly, every glance affording her satisfaction, especially when the hood of the cloak Molly wore was thrown back and the girl gave her a pleasant, admiring smile, and showed a pair of laughing eyes and a set of pearly teeth.

“Why, it’s master’s biking young lady,” said Jane to herself, in astonishment. “There’ll be a row after this.”

“Where’s auntie, Jane?” said Syd, suddenly.

“Not come back from Tilborough yet, sir,” replied the girl, snappishly.

Sir Hilton, who was still walking up and down, turned sharply at the words “auntie” and “Tilborough”; but he said nothing, only passed his hand in a fidgety way over his forehead and continued his wild-beast-like walk, muttering every now and then to himself, till he stopped suddenly close to the young couple, who were whispering together.

“Tackle him directly he comes in, pet,” Syd was saying.

“But dad’s so obstinate, Syd. You give him a good talking-to. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not – not a bit; but I don’t want to have a row just at present.”

“But it’s got to be done, Syd dear. You have a good go at dad. Tell him it’s of no use for him to kick, and he must make the best of it.”

“Yes, yes, I will, pet; but in the middle of the night like this? I want to get uncle to bed. He’s very queer yet.”

“Yes, he does look groggy,” said the girl, innocently; “but you needn’t be in such a hurry to get rid of me now I am here.”

“I am not, darling. I should like to keep you here – always; only uncle isn’t fit to talk to yet.”

“He does look dazy. I say, Syd, he does understand that we are married?”

“No, pet, he hasn’t an idea.”

“What a shame!” cried the girl. “You said you’d tell him at once.”

“Look at him! What’s the good of telling him now, when every word would roll off him like water from a duck’s back, and not one go in?”

“I don’t know; try. If you don’t, I shall. There, I will,” cried the girl, and starting up before Syd could stop her, she planted herself theatrically before Sir Hilton, and with an arch look, and her eyes twinkling, she laid a hand upon the baronet’s arm, saying —

“Please, Sir Hilton, shall I do?”

He stared at her wonderingly for some moments.

“Eh?” he said. “Do? Who is it?”

“Miss Simpkins, Sir Hilton. You know – La Sylphide.”

Sir Hilton laid his left hand upon his forehead, and gazed at the girl thoughtfully.

“La Sylphide?” he said at last. “Did she win?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton, by three lengths,” cried the girl, eagerly; “but, please, don’t you know me?”

“No,” said Sir Hilton, shaking his head. “No.”

“There, I told you so,” whispered Syd. “He’s quite off his nut.”

“But I’m your niece, Sir Hilton,” persisted the girl, pressing up to him, as if asking for an avuncular kiss; “and I’m Mrs Sydney Smithers.”

“Yes,” said Sir Hilton, thoughtfully, as Syd took his young wife’s announcement as his cue to rise, and stood by her ready to receive a share of the coming blessing – or the other thing.

“Thank you, yes,” said Sir Hilton, dreamily. “Yes, I know you now. La Sylphide, the mare, won, and you are La Sylphide too, the pretty little girl at the big music-hall who called herself after my mare. Thank you, Miss Simpkins. I hope you won a pair of gloves.”

“Oh, dear!” cried the girl, pouting; “he don’t understand a bit. I suppose, Syd, we must wait till he comes round. But do you think it was our champagne that made him so ill? Oh, here’s dad. Daddy dear, Sir Hilton’s quite off his head still.”

“Yes, my gal, I know.”

“But do you think our champagne was bad enough to make him as queer as this?”

“What!” roared the trainer, with his face turning mottled. “No, cert’n’y not. Hold your tongue! Well, Sir Hilton, how are you now?”

“Never better, Sam! never better. A little thick in the head only. You need not trouble any more about me.”

“Oh, but I do, Sir Hilton.”

“Nonsense, man!” said the baronet, drawing himself up. “I’m quite right. I can’t understand how it was you persisted in coming, and bringing your charming daughter with you all this way, and at so late an hour. Why, it must be getting on for ten.”

“For ten, Sir Hilton?” cried Simpkins, with a chuckle, and, to the baronet’s surprise, he dropped into a lounge.

“Don’t scold father, uncle,” said the girl, with a little emphasis on the last word, whose effect was to make the gentleman addressed lay his fidgety left hand once more upon his forehead. “I wanted to come, you know.”

“Eh? Very good of you,” said Sir Hilton, politely; “and I shall make a point of telling Lady Lisle how kind and attentive you were at your house during my little indisposition. It was the sun, I feel sure.”

“Ay, you’ve hit it now, Sir Hilton. That’s what it was – the sun.”

“Yes, the sun,” assented Sir Hilton, before turning again smilingly to Molly. “Yes,” he repeated, “I feel sure that Lady Lisle will be most grateful, and that she will call upon you to express her gratitude for the kindness of La Sylphide.”

“Oh! Sir Hilton – ” began Molly; but she stopped, for he went off, wandering strangely again at the mention of that word, but only to be brought up short by the trainer.

“There, what did I say, Sir Hilton? You were not fit to go, but you would insist upon coming home.”

“Ah, yes,” cried the baronet, recollecting himself again. “I remember now – I was ill – in bed – there was the doctor – I grew better, and wanted to come home, and the landlord insisted upon bringing his little nurse.”

“That’s right, Sir Hilton.”

“But I didn’t want him, and I don’t want the little nurse; do I, Syd?”

“No, uncle, of course not. But I do, darling,” whispered the boy, nudging his wife.

“Quite right, my boy. So now, Mr Simpkins, I thank you once more. Will you have the goodness to take your daughter and go?”

“No, Sir Hilton, with all due respect to you,” said the trainer, drawing himself up; “seeing how things has happened, and what it all means to me and mine now, I say as you ain’t fit to be left. Is he, my dear?”

“No, dad. I think he looks very ill.”

“That’s right, my dear,” whispered the trainer. “Here you are, and here you’re going to stop.”

Sir Hilton had turned angrily away at the trainer’s reply, and went out into the hall, followed by Syd.

“What impudence! Not ill a bit now, only a little thick in the head. Hang him! Let him stop, Syd; but what about that girl? I don’t know what your aunt will say.”

“No, uncle; no more do I.”

Sir Hilton pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “Here, confound it! My watch has stopped. What time – ”

Before he could finish his question the clock began to answer by chiming twice.

“Half-past what?” cried Sir Hilton, staring at the clock-face, and then passing his hand over his eyes impatiently. “I say, here, Syd, my eyes are not clear to-night. What time is it?”

“Half-past three, uncle.”

“Half-past what? Here, I’m getting mixed. Why is it half-past three? What has the clock been gaining like that for? Here, Syd, why don’t you answer, sir? I can’t remember. What does it all mean?”

“I think it’s because your head’s a bit wrong, uncle,” said the boy, shrinking.

“I think it’s because you’re an impudent young rascal, sir,” cried Sir Hilton in a passion. “Ah! I remember now; I promised you a good thrashing for – for – ”

He stopped short, and looked vacantly at his nephew for some seconds. Then —

“Here, what the deuce did I promise you a good thrashing for, sir?”

“A thrashing, uncle? Let me see – ”

“Bah!” cried Sir Hilton, turning angrily away and making for the drawing-room again, to find the trainer mopping his forehead where he sat, and Molly leaning back in the corner of the quilted couch dropping off to sleep, but ready to start up at his coming.

“Here, you,” he cried, “that boy Syd’s an idiot.”

“That I’m sure he’s not,” cried the girl, indignantly, “and you oughtn’t to call him so, even if you are his uncle. Syd!”

“You tell me, then,” said Sir Hilton. “What did I – Oh, hang it all!” he cried, “I can’t remember a bit.”

“That you can’t, Sir Hilton,” said the trainer, nervously, as Sir Hilton stared at him blankly, pressing his hands to his head. “It’s just what I told you, Sir Hilton. What you want is a good night’s rest, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“But I feel better now – ever so much. What should I want to go to bed for? Why, I’ve only just got up.”

“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer to himself. “I give it him too strong; I give it him too strong, and it was nothing like what one might ha’ give a horse.”

“Look here,” cried Sir Hilton, making as if to fix his visitor with a pointing finger, which he kept in motion following imaginary movements on the part of Simpkins. “I wish to goodness you’d sit still. What the dickens do you keep bobbing about like that for? What did you say – go to bed?”

“Yes, Sir Hilton.”

“But why – why? Didn’t I just get up?”

“’Bout ’nour ago, Sir Hilton. You see, we’ve driv’ over here since. You would get up and come.”

“Of course! Home – to my wife. That’s right; I can see that quite plain, and – Here you two on the sofa, what are you doing? You, Syd, let that young lady alone, sir. Sit up, my dear. It isn’t delicate for you to be going to sleep on his shoulder like that.”

“Yes, it is – now,” whimpered the girl, half crying. “I can’t help it. I’m so dreadfully sleepy.”

“Of course you are, of course. Poor little thing! Half-past three! Why, you ought to have been in bed hours ago. It was shameful of your father to bring you here. But – but – but,” cried the unfortunate man, staring and gesticulating fiercely, “why doesn’t someone tell me?”

“I did tell yer, Sir Hilton. The hosses was put in the dogcarts when you would come, and I’ve seen you safe. Can’t you understand now?”

“No, no; not a bit. Here, Syd!”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Come here.”

“Yes, uncle. There, lean your head back, Molly, if you will go to sleep.”

“I can’t help it, Syd dear; and I’m so cold.”

“Here, pull that over you, then,” whispered the boy hastily, and, as the poor girl sank back, he seized and gave the great silk-lined skin a hasty twitch which swept it right over his young wife. “Did you call me, uncle?”

“Yes, of course. I want Mark and that girl.”

“What girl, uncle?” cried the lad, indignantly.

“What girl, sir? Jane, the maid. Where are they?”

“Gone to the pantry, I s’pose, uncle,” said Syd, giving a glance in the direction of the couch and seeing nothing now but the hump of white, woolly skin. “Gone to bed, p’raps. I say, uncle; do go too. You’ll be able to think better when you wake up.”

“Wake up!” said Sir Hilton, musingly – “remember? Yes; something about a boy – no, a girl on a bicycle. I did, didn’t I? – talk to a girl – or see one on a bicycle – no, it was in pale blue and scarlet I did, didn’t I, Sam?”

“Yes, sir; I think you did – to my gal there.”

Sir Hilton looked in the direction in which the trainer pointed, and saw the Polar bear skin; nothing more.

“Where?” he said vacantly, as he turned his eyes back upon the trainer, who was wiping the drops again from his steaming face. “Your girl – Mary Ann Simpkins – La Sylphide?”

“Oh, pore chap, he’s quite off his head!” groaned the trainer. “It means a ’sylum, and if old Trimmer splits – ”

“Ha!” cried Sir Hilton, in a tone which made the trainer spring to his feet, staring wildly at the speaker.

“Here, uncle, don’t go on like that,” said Syd, soothingly. “I wish old Granton were here with a straight waistcoat. Here, Sam Simpkins help me! It’s all your fault. Don’t seize a fellow like that, uncle? Help, Sam! He’s got ’em horrid, and it must be with the stuff he had in your place.”

“Now, don’t you go and say such a thing as that, young gen’leman,” cried the trainer, fiercely, as he tried to take hold of Sir Hilton’s arm. “Here, let’s get him to bed, and you’d better send for your doctor.”

“Be quiet, both of you,” cried Sir Hilton, shaking himself free. “My head’s clear now, but I must have been ill; my head has been horribly mixed up. Yes, I recollect now; but speak low. Don’t make a noise, or you’ll be having her ladyship down.”

“I believe she has been listening all the time. Oh, uncle, there will be such a scene in the morning.”

“Yes, my boy,” said Sir Hilton, nervously; “but we must hush it up. Yes, that’s it; I promised Lady Tilborough I’d ride her mare.”

“Yes, uncle; that’s right.”

“And somehow I couldn’t get to the saddling paddock.”

“Why, you’re going back again now, uncle.”

“No, my boy. I can see it all clearly enough now. I couldn’t get there after that champagne – ”

Simpkins had hard work to suppress a groan.

“Some little syren of a girl got hold of me and kept me back so that I lost the race, Lady Tilborough’s money, and my four thousand pounds.”

“Don’t, uncle! Pull yourself together. You’re sliding back again.”

“Yes; stop him,” cried the trainer, seizing his victim and shaking him hard. “Don’t go back, Sir Hilton; if you don’t come round now, see what it means for me and my pore gal.”

“Oh, uncle, you’re going off again,” said Syd, excitedly. “Do hold on to something, and don’t keep sliding back. Try – try. Now give your head a good shake to make it work. Here, Sam Simpkins, don’t you think we might give him a dose of spirits to wind him up?”

“No, no,” cried the trainer, excitedly. “With a head like this there is no knowing what might happen to him.”

“But I can’t let him stop like this. There, don’t waggle your head any more, uncle; try if you can remember now.”

“No; nothing but the bees, my boy.”

“The bees?”

“Yes, my boy, and the rushing after the poll. Oh, yes, I’m beginning to recollect now. The election, and the race against Watcombe, the brewer.”

“Race?” cried Syd. “That’s the right clue, uncle. Now you’re beginning to go again. That shaking did it. Now hold tight to the ‘race.’”

“Yes, my boy; I remember all right now; heading the poll and leaving the brewer nowhere.”

“No, no; the race, uncle – the race.”

“Of course, my boy. It’s all coming back now. That bad champagne and the buzzing of the bees.”

“Oh, dear!” groaned the trainer; “he don’t forget that, and he’s off again.”

“To be sure,” cried Sir Hilton, eagerly. “I recollect. It was ever so long ago, and the speaker was – ”

“No, no, uncle; you’re getting mixed again. The starter.”

“No, my boy, the speaker in the chair, and the bell was ringing.”

“That’s right, uncle, to clear the course. Now you’re all right!”

“Yes, now I’m all right, my boy. I was in and there was a division. I rushed through the Lobby, and out into the fresh air. The mare was ready. Someone gave me a leg-up, and I was all excitement for the race.”

“That’s your sort, uncle,” cried Syd, as with his eyes fixed on one of the moonlit windows, Sir Hilton stopped, panting as if out of breath. “Bravo! Stick to the rage. He’s coming round fast now, Sam.”

“No, no; look at him. He’s as mad as a hatter.”

“Yes,” cried Sir Hilton; “then, before I knew where we were, and without waiting for the starter, away we went. Parliament Street was passed in a stride – the mob scattered right and left. Charing Cross and the lions – Cockspur Street – Pall Mall – whirr – buzz – away we went, with the bees swarming round my head. Just at the corner by the clubs I wrenched her head round, and she bounded up Saint James’s Street. A drag to the left, and we were in Piccadilly. A road-car was in the way, but she cleared it in a bound. Cabs strewed the earth, for the strike was over; but she took them all in her stride as we dashed on, just catching a glimpse of the houses to the right – the Green Park to the left. Then, clearing a penny ’bus at Hyde Park Corner, we nearly rushed into the hospital doors. Again I wrenched her head, turning in my saddle in time to see a passenger on the knifeboard pick up his hat. Then down Constitution Hill we swept as if gliding along a chute. In my wild excitement, as we darted by the Palace, I yelled out, ‘God save the King!’ But he was not at home, and we were urging on our wild career past the barracks, along the Bird-cage Walk. The ducks whirred up from the pool, the people shrieked, as we scattered perambulators, nursemaids, and children, flying like leaves upon the wind. Storey’s Gate was closed, but the mare laughed – a loud, weird laugh – as she cleared it, and we dropped in Great George Street, where a newsboy yelled ‘winners!’ with the Parliament House in sight. ‘We win – we win!’ I cried, for it was the goal. ‘Give her her head!’ the people yelled, but the mare took it. She stretched her neck right into infinite space, my silk swelled out like a bubble, and feeling that I must steer now I drew on the reins, hand over hand – hand over hand – to feel her head; but it was half a mile away. At last I got a bite. She took the bait – the bit in her teeth, and I struck, turned her, and we dashed through Palace Yard again, straight for the great Hall doors. ‘M.P. mustn’t pass!’ shouted an inspector, throwing out his arms. ‘Head of the poll!’ I yelled, and the mare went through him like a flash, as we reached the Lobby once more. There was the straight run in, and holding her well in hand I lifted her over the gangway and settled down to win. How they cheered! Opposition to right of me, Government to left of me, and the Speaker ahead of me, waving me on. ‘The Ayes have it! The Noes! The Ayes! The Noes! They volleyed, they thundered. ’Vide – ’vide – ’vide – ’vide!’ and the mare ’vided them as we still tore on, nearer and nearer, till the curls in the Speaker’s wig grew clear, and then the whites of his eyes. Nearer and nearer in the mad excitement of the race, till with one final rush we passed the Mace, the Irish party rising as one man, and ran past the winning-post right into Parliament to the roaring of their wild hurroo!”

“Bravo! Hurroo!” shouted Syd, as his uncle stopped, panting heavily again. “That was how you did it. You won; only you’ve got it a bit mixed. But you’re coming round. I say, you feel ever so much better, don’t you, for getting rid of that?”

“Oh, it’s all over, my lad,” cried the trainer. “Did you ever hear the like?”

“It’s only excitement,” said Syd. “Look at him; he’s calming down now beautifully. You see, he’d got two things on his brain – the race and the election – and having been a bit screwed with the bad stuff you let him have, he naturally got himself a bit mixed.”

“Mixed?” said Sir Hilton, turning upon the boy sharply. “Wasn’t I talking about something just now? But look, look at that man Simpkins rolling his eyes about. Is he going mad?”

“Not a bit o’ it, Sir Hilton; it’s you as is mad. Ain’t it enough as I’ve lost what I have?”

“You lost too?”

“Yes, uncle,” cried Syd, shaking him; “but you haven’t. You won – for all of us. I turned that ten you gave me into a century.”

“I – won?” stammered Sir Hilton, with his hands pressing his temples.

“To be sure you did. You were sitting all of a jelly, and the game was nearly up; but Dr Jack Granton gave you a drench, just as if you’d been a horse. Then we got you into the air, and you came round directly, and ran between us to the saddling paddock, where we set you on to the mare just in time, and you led the field from the beginning. You won in a canter. Can’t you recollect?”

“No, nothing.”

“Don’t you remember nearly tumbling off the horse after you’d passed the post?”

“No.”

“Nor getting into the scales, saddle and bridle and all?”

“No; nothing whatever.”

“Oh, Sam Simpkins, you must have given him a dose!”

“Yes, I remember that – that champagne. It did taste very queer and strange,” cried Sir Hilton, turning upon the trainer, whose red face looked piebald with sickly white, so strangely was it mottled.

“I’d had it a long time, Sir Hilton,” stammered the man. “P’raps it was a bit off.”

“Oh, hang that!” cried Sir Hilton. “Tell me again, Syd, my boy; did I win?”

“In a canter, I tell you, uncle,” cried the boy.

“Ha!” sighed Sir Hilton, with a look of intense relief. “But it must be kept from your aunt. She has such – ”

“Kept from auntie?” cried Syd, staring. “Why, she knows all.”

“Knows all? You’ve told her?”

“No-o-o-o. Don’t you remember? No, you recollect nothing. She got to know you were off to ride somehow, and came after us to the hotel.”

“What?”

“That’s right, uncle. Lady Lisle came and saw him, didn’t she, Sam?”

“Yes, sir,” growled Sam, still mopping his face.

“But not dressed – not in my silk and boots?”

“Oh, yes, uncle. Didn’t she, Sam?”

“Yes, sir; that’s right enough.”

“Horror!” groaned Sir Hilton. “She’ll never forgive me.”

“Worse than that, uncle. She saw that you were tight.”

“You young villain, it’s not true!” roared Sir Hilton. “How dare you say that!”

“Because it’s true,” cried Syd, lightly. “Isn’t it, Sam?”

“Yes, sir,” faltered the man. “Wery screwed indeed.”

“Tell me the rest,” groaned Sir Hilton in despair.

“Fainted away, uncle; but I didn’t stop to see. I had to look to you and the race. But afterwards Dr Jack Granton went back to the hotel and physicked her. Didn’t he, Sam?”

“Yes, sir, ’long o’ Lady Tilborough; and they took her away in her ladyship’s carriage to Oakleigh.”

“And then brought her home?”

“I s’pose so, uncle. I dunno. I stuck to you. So did Sam.”

“Thank you, my boy – thank you, Simpkins. I’ll talk to you another time. But, you see, I’m quite clear and well now.”

“Yes, Sir Hilton – thank goodness!” said the trainer, hoarsely.

“Then, now, you had better have a glass of something and drive – What’s that?”

“Wheels, uncle. There goes the gate.”

The click, click, click came very plainly, and the next minute there were the steps of Jane and Mark in the hall.

“Stop a moment,” cried Sir Hilton. “What is it? Who is it come?”

“Her ladyship, I think, Sir Hilton,” cried Jane.

“What! I thought she was at home.”

“No, sir. She went to Tilborough after you.”

“Uncle,” cried Syd, “whatever shall we say?”

He shrank back with his uncle into the drawing-room, and the door swung to, while the next moment they heard the front door open and Lady Lisle’s voice.

“Has Sir Hilton returned?”

“Yes, my lady,” replied Jane.

“Ha!”

Lady Lisle hurried into the drawing-room with stately stride, but she looked round in vain, and faced Lady Tilborough and Doctor Granton, who had followed her in, for the late occupants of the room had disappeared.

So vast is woman’s power over man.