We must go back to three o'clock. At three o'clock Bobby, walking in the garden smoking a cigarette, had crossed the front of the arbour—Arbour No. 1. The grass path, soundless as a Turkey carpet, did not betray his footsteps.

There were two people in the arbour and they were "canoodling"—Simon and Julia Delyse. She was keeping her hand in, perhaps, or the attraction Simon had always had for her had betrayed her into allowing him to hold her hand. Anyhow, he was holding it. Bobby looked at her, and Julia snatched her hand away. Simon laughed; he seemed to think it a good joke, and his vain soul was doubtless pleased with having got the better of Bobby with Bobby's girl.

Bobby passed on, saying, "I beg your pardon." It was the only thing he could think of to say. Then, when out of hearing, he too laughed. He had got the better of Julia. That brooding presence would brood no more.

An hour later Simon, walking in the garden alone and in meditation, reached the bowling-green. He drew close to Arbour No. 2. The grass silencing his footsteps, he passed the arbour opening and looked in. The two people there did not see him for a moment, then they unlocked.

It was Cerise and Bobby.

Simon stood, mouth open, stock still, cigar dropped on grass.

He had laughed when Bobby had caught him with Julia. He did not laugh now.

The shock of the poaching business had left him untouched, unshaken, but Cerise, in some strange way, was his centre of gravity, his compass, and sometimes his rudder. He loved Cerise; the other girls were phantoms. Perhaps Cerise was the only real thing in his mental state.

For a moment he stood, his hand to his head like a man stunned.

Bobby ran to him and caught him.

"Where am I?" said Uncle Simon. "Oh—oh—I see." He leaned heavily on Bobby, looking about him in a dazed way like a man half awakened. Madame Rossignol, who had just come out of the hotel, seeing his condition, ran towards him, and Simon, as though recognising a guardian angel, held out his hand.

Then Bobby and the old lady gently, very gently, began to lead him back to the house.

As they drew near the back entrance three men, one following the other, came out.

Simon stopped.

He had recognised Tidd; he seemed also to recognise more fully his own position and to remember. Bobby felt his hand tightly clasping his own.

"Why, this is Mr. Tidd," said Simon.

"Mr. Pettigrew," said Tidd, "where are my papers—the papers in the case of Renshaw?"

"Tidd v. Renshaw," said Simon's accurate mind. "They are in the top left-hand drawer of my bureau in Charles Street, Westminster."