When Judith returned to Othello Cottage, she was surprised to see a man promenading around it, flattening his nose at the window, so as to bring his eyes against the glass, then, finding that the breath from his nostrils dimmed the pane, wiping the glass and again flattening his nose. At first he held his hands on the window-ledge, but being incommoded by the refraction of the light, put his open hands against the pane, one on each side of his face. Having satisfied himself at one casement, he went to another, and made the same desperate efforts to see in at that.

Judith coming up to the door, and putting the key in, disturbed him, he started, turned, and with a nose much like putty, but rapidly purpling with returned circulation, disclosed the features of Mr. Scantlebray, Senior.

“Ah, ha!” said that gentleman, in no way disconcerted; “here I have you, after having been looking for my orphing charmer in every direction but the right one. With your favor I will come inside and have a chat.”

“Excuse me,” said Judith, “but I do not desire to admit visitors.”

“But I am an exception. I’m the man who should have looked after your interests, and would have done it a deal better than others. And so there has been a rumpus, eh? What about?”

“I really beg your pardon, Mr. Scantlebray, but I am engaged and cannot ask you to enter, nor delay conversing with you on the doorstep.”

“Oh, Jimminy! don’t consider me. I’ll stand on the doorstep and talk with you inside. Don’t consider me; go on with what you have to do and let me amuse you. It must be dull and solitary here, but I will enliven you, though I have not my brother’s gifts. Now, Obadiah is a man with a genius for entertaining people. He missed his way when he started in life; he would have made a comic actor. Bless your simple heart, had that man appeared on the boards, he would have brought the house down—”

“I have no doubt whatever he missed his way when he took to keeping an asylum,” said Judith.

“We have all our gifts,” said Scantlebray. “Mine is architecture, and ’pon my honor as a gentleman, I do admire the structure of Othello Cottage, uncommon. You won’t object to my pulling out my tape and taking the plan of the edifice, will you?”

“The house belongs to Captain Coppinger; consult him.”

“My dear orphing, not a bit. I’m not on the best terms with that gent. There lies a tract of ruffled water between us. Not that I have given him cause for offence, but that he is not sweet upon me. He took off my hands the management of your affairs in the valuation business, and let me tell you—between me and you and that post yonder”—he walked in and laid his hand on a beam—“that he mismanaged it confoundedly. He is your husband, I am well aware, and I ought not to say this to you. He took the job into his hands because he had an eye to you, I knew that well enough. But he hadn’t the gift—the faculty. Now I have made all that sort of thing my specialty. How many rooms have you in this house? What does that door lead to?”

“Really, Mr. Scantlebray, you must excuse me; I am busy.”

“O, yes—vastly busy. Walking on the cliffs, eh! Alone, eh? Well, mum is the word. Come, make me your friend and tell me all about it. How came you here? There are all kind of stories afloat about the quarrel between you and your husband, and he is an Eolus, a Blustering Boreas, all the winds in one box. Not surprised. He blew up a gale against me once. Domestic felicity is a fable of the poets. Home is a region of cyclones, tornadoes, hurricanes—what you like; anything but a Pacific Ocean. Now, you won’t mind my throwing an eye round this house, will you—a scientific eye? Architecture is my passion.”

“Mr. Scantlebray, that is my bedroom; I forbid you touching the handle. Excuse me—but I must request you to leave me in peace.” “My dear creature,” said Scantlebray, “scientific thirst before all. It is unslakable save by the acquisition of what it desires. The structure of this house, as well as its object, has always been a puzzle to me. So your aunt was to have lived here—the divine, the fascinating Dionysia, as I remember her years ago. It wasn’t built for the lovely Dionysia, was it? No. Then for what object was it built? And why so long untenanted? These are nuts for you to crack.”

“I do not trouble myself about these questions. I must pray you to depart.”

“In half the twinkle of an eye,” said Scantlebray. Then he seated himself. “Come, you haven’t a superabundance of friends. Make me one and unburden your soul to me. What is it all about? Why are you here? What has caused this squabble? I have a brother a solicitor at Bodmin. Let me jot down the items, and we’ll get a case out of it. Trust me as a friend, and I’ll have you righted. I hear Miss Trevisa has come in for a fortune. Be a good girl, set your back against her and show fight.”

“I will thank you to leave the house,” said Judith, haughtily. “A moment ago you made reference to your honor as a gentleman. I must appeal to that same honor which you pride yourself on possessing, and, by virtue of that, request you to depart.”

“I’ll go, I’ll go. But, my dear child, why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me? Are you expecting some one? It is an odd thing, but as I came along I was overtaken by Mr. Oliver Menaida, making his way to the downs—to look at the sea, which is rough, and inhale the breeze of the ocean, of course. At one time, I am informed, you made daily visits to Polzeath, daily visits while Captain Coppinger was on the sea. Since his return, I am informed, these visits have been discontinued. Is it possible that instead of your visiting Mr. Oliver, Mr. Oliver is now visiting you—here, in this cottage?”

A sudden slash across the back and shoulders made Mr. Scantlebray jump and bound aside. Coppinger had entered, and was armed with a stout walking-stick.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“I came to pay my respects to the grass-widow,” sneered Scantlebray, as he sidled to the door and bolted, but not till, with a face full of malignity, he had shaken his fist at Coppinger, behind his back.

“What brings this man here?” asked the Captain.

“Impertinence—nothing else,” answered Judith.

“What was that he said about Oliver Menaida?”

“His insolence will not bear reporting.”

“You are right. He is a cur, and deserves to be kicked, not spoken to or spoken of. I heed him not. There is in him a grudge against me. He thought at one time that I would have taken his daughter—do you recall speaking to me once about the girl that you supposed was a fit mate for me! I laughed—I thought you had heard the chatter about Polly Scantlebray and me. A bold, fine girl, full of blood as a cherry is full of juice—one of the stock—but with better looks than the men, yet with the assurance, the effrontery of her father. A girl to laugh and talk with, not to take to one’s heart. I care for Polly Scantlebray! Not I! That man has never forgiven me the disappointment because I did not take her. I never intended to. I despised her. Now you know all. Now you see why he hates me. I do not care. I am his match. But I will not have him insolent to you. What did he say?”

It was a relief to Judith that Captain Coppinger had not heard the words that Mr. Scantlebray had used. They would have inflamed his jealousy, and fired him into fury against the speaker.

“He told me that he had been passed, on his way hither, by Mr. Oliver Menaida, coming to the cliffs to inhale the sea air and look at the angry ocean.”

Captain Coppinger was satisfied, or pretended to be so. He went to the door and shut it, but not till he had gone outside and looked round to see, so Judith thought, whether Oliver Menaida were coming that way, quite as much as to satisfy himself that Mr. Scantlebray was not lurking round a corner listening.

No! Oliver Menaida would not come there. Of that Judith was quite sure. He had the delicacy of mind and the good sense not to risk her reputation by approaching Othello Cottage. When he had made that offer to her she had known that his own heart spoke, but he had veiled its speech and had made the offer as from his father, and in such a way as not to offend her. Only when she had accused herself of attempted murder did he break through his reserve to show her his rooted confidence in her innocence, in spite of her confession.

When the door was fast, Coppinger came over to Judith, and, standing at a little distance from her, said:

“Judith, look at me.”

She raised her eyes to him. He was pale and his face lined, but he had recovered greatly since that day when she had seen him suffering from the effects of the poison.

“Judith,” said he, “I know all.”

“What do you know?”

“You did not poison me.”

“I mixed and prepared the bowl for you.”

“Yes—but the poison had been put into the oatmeal before, not by you, not with your knowledge.”

She was silent. She was no adept at lying; she could not invent another falsehood to convince him of her guilt.

“I know how it all came about,” pursued Captain Coppinger. “The cook, Jane, has told me. Jamie came into the kitchen with a blue paper in his hand, asked for the oatmeal, and put in the contents of the paper so openly as not in the least to arouse suspicion. Not till I was taken ill and made inquiries did the woman connect his act with what followed. I have found the blue paper, and on it it is written, in Mr. Menaida’s handwriting, which I know, ‘Arsenic. Poison: for Jamie, only to be used for the dressing of bird-skins, and a limited amount to be served to him at a time.’ Now I am satisfied, because I know your character, and because I saw innocence in your manner when you came down to me on the second occasion, and dashed the bowl from my lips—I saw then that you were innocent.”

Judith said nothing. Her eyes rested on the ground.

“I had angered that fool of a boy, I had beaten him. In a fit of sullen revenge, and without calculating either how best to do it, or what the consequences would be, he went to the place where he knew the arsenic was—Mr. Menaida had impressed on him the danger of playing with the poison—and he abstracted it. But he had not the wit or cunning generally present in idiots——”

“He is no idiot,” said Judith.

“No, in fools,” said Coppinger, “to put the poison into the oatmeal secretly when no one was in the kitchen. He asked the cook for the meal and mingled the contents of the paper into it so openly as to disarm suspicion.”

He paused for Judith to speak, but she did not.

He went on: “Then you, in utter guilelessness, prepared my breakfast for me, as instructed by Miss Trevisa. Next morning you did the same, but were either suspicious of evil through missing the paper from your cabinet, or drawer, or wherever you kept it, or else Jamie confessed to you what he had done. Thereupon you rushed to me to save me from taking another portion. I do not know that I would have taken it; I had formed a half-suspicion from the burning sensation in my throat, and from what I saw in the spoon—but there was no doubt in my mind after the first discovery that you were guiltless. I sought the whole matter out, as far as I was able. Jamie is guilty—not you.”

“And,” said Judith, drawing a long breath, “what about Jamie?”

“There are two alternatives,” said Coppinger; “the boy is dangerous. Never again shall he come under my roof.”

“No,” spoke Judith, “no, he must not go to the Glaze again. Let him remain here with me. I will take care of him that he does mischief to no one. He would never have hurt you had not you hurt him. Forgive him, because he was aggravated to it by the unjust and cruel treatment he received.”

“The boy is a mischievous idiot,” said Coppinger; “he must not be allowed to be at large.”

“What, then, are your alternatives?”

“In the first place, I propose to send him back to that establishment whence he should never have been released, to Scantlebray’s Asylum.”

“No—no—no!” gasped Judith. “You do not know what that place is. I do. I got into it. I saw how Jamie had been treated.”

“He cannot be treated too severely. He is dangerous. You refuse this alternative?”

“Yes, indeed, I do.”

“Very well. Then I put the matter in the hands of justice, and he is proceeded against and convicted as having attempted my life with poison. To jail he will go.”

It was as Judith had feared. There were but two destinations for Jamie, her dear, dear brother, the son of that blameless father—jail or an asylum.

“Oh, no! no—no! not that!” cried Judith.

“One or the other. I give you six hours to choose,” said Coppinger. Then he went to the door, opened it, and stood looking seaward. Suddenly he started, “Ha! the Black Prince.” He turned in the door and said to Judith: “One hour after sunset come to Pentyre Glaze. Come alone, and tell me your decision. I will wait for that.”