Grimshaw had quite lost his look of wear and tear when he re-entered Farleigh’s cottage. Love, we may presume, is omnipotent even over the ravages of malaria. Vitality expressed itself in his eyes and in every movement of his athletic body. He had just visited Isaac Burble; and he knew—humanly speaking—that he had pulled through the plucky old man. He believed, also, that he could restore Mary to the arms of the pessimistic Timothy. In short, his fighting instincts were agreeably quickened. The man’s mind had become triumphant. Perhaps his dominant thought was the conviction that if he could win for his own a girl as sweet as Cicely, he could win also her mother. Cicely had imposed this task upon him. To “make good” in her eyes became the object paramount.

At the first glance round the kitchen he suspected nothing amiss, simply because his vision was slightly blurred by Cupid. He beheld Lady Selina, possibly for the first time, as the mother of his beloved rather than the lady of an ill-administered manor. And in her eyes he seemed to perceive a sort of appeal, which, of course, was there, although Lady Selina would have repudiated the fact had she been aware of it. Cicely’s word “forlorn” obtruded itself. She looked exactly what she felt at the moment—solitary and practically aloof, a fine survival of a doomed aristocracy.

She greeted him courteously. Nicodemus stumped out. Agatha and John remained. After speaking to them, Grimshaw was crossing the kitchen when Lady Selina lifted her hand and voice:

“One moment, Mr. Grimshaw.”

“Certainly.”

“A grave charge has been brought against me.”

She spoke very suavely, but he noticed that her tone was pitched higher than usual.

“A charge, Lady Selina?”

“In connection with the sickness in this house to-day, and the diphtheria long ago that took from Timothy Farleigh his two little girls.”

The young man instantly realised what had taken place. A swift glance at Agatha confirmed his worst fears. The girl’s lips were quivering; her bosom heaved. John, disciplined on the field of battle, stood doggedly at attention.

“These young people,” continued Lady Selina, “accuse me of no less a crime than murder.”

“Uncle Timothy used the word,” said Agatha defiantly.

“And his niece, whom I have befriended in many ways, dares to lay the death of the two Farleigh children at my door.”

Between two fires, and enfiladed by his own thoughts, stood the uneasy Grimshaw. Cicely’s kisses were still warm on his lips. To do him justice, he was uneasy because all consideration, naturally enough, became centred upon Cicely. Swiftly, he perceived one way out of the wilderness. Taken aback, too honest to temporise deliberately, he said impetuously:

“A charge of murder is preposterous.” He turned, almost angrily, upon Agatha, “Why do you talk nonsense? There can be no murder without motive.”

Lady Selina smiled faintly.

“Thank you, Mr. Grimshaw. That ought to be obvious to any intelligence.”

Agatha’s face indicated confoundment. Stung more by Grimshaw’s manner than his words, she said acrimoniously:

“So you side with Authority, Mr. Grimshaw?”

Once again, Grimshaw’s part in the proceedings was forced. A different appeal from weakness to strength might have been met in a very different fashion. Irritated by the consciousness of being in a false position, irritated even more by Agatha’s undisguised sneer, he said emphatically:

“I detest violence, Miss Farleigh. Violence, let me tell you, always defeats its ends.”

He turned to Lady Selina who was visibly impressed.

“You are too generous, Lady Selina, not to make allowance for Timothy Farleigh, a man beside himself with misery and anxiety.”

More and more pleased with Grimshaw, Lady Selina replied graciously:

“I hope so.”

“If you will allow me,” Grimshaw went on, “I will go to my patient.”

He bowed and left the kitchen.

Lady Selina swept to the door. John opened it for her. Without a word, she passed into the hot sunshine.

John came back to Agatha, dropping this ointment upon her lacerated tissues:

“Grimshaw’s a damned timeserver, Aggie, like the rest of ’em.”

“I couldn’t have believed it,” she faltered. “I—I thought he was different.”

Suddenly, from the ingle-nook came a burst of vivid flame. Nick had set his fool’s-cap afire. His shrill, uncanny laugh rang through the kitchen.

“Damn the boy,” exclaimed the startled John. Nick confronted him with his imbecile grin.

“I be saft along o’ my lady,” he piped. “Father says so; yas, I be saft along o’ she.”