grizzled Frenchman who believed in none. They could argue with
each other, but neither could appeal to him. After a time this
"progressive" logomachy had reached a crisis of tedium; Lord
Galloway got up also and sought the drawing-room. He lost his way
in long passages for some six or eight minutes: till he heard the
high-pitched, didactic voice of the doctor, and then the dull
voice of the priest, followed by general laughter. They also, he
thought with a curse, were probably arguing about "science and
religion." But the instant he opened the salon door he saw only
one thing--he saw what was not there. He saw that Commandant
O'Brien was absent, and that Lady Margaret was absent too.

Rising impatiently from the drawing-room, as he had from the
dining-room, he stamped along the passage once more. His notion
of protecting his daughter from the Irish-Algerian n'er-do-weel
had become something central and even mad in his mind. As he went
towards the back of the house, where was Valentin's study, he was
surprised to meet his daughter, who swept past with a white,
scornful face, which was a second enigma. If she had been with
O'Brien, where was O'Brien! If she had not been with O'Brien,
where had she been? With a sort of senile and passionate
suspicion he groped his way to the dark back parts of the mansion,
and eventually found a servants' entrance that opened on to the
garden. The moon with her scimitar had now ripped up and rolled
away all the storm-wrack. The argent light lit up all four corners
of the garden. A tall figure in blue was striding across the lawn
towards the study door; a glint of moonlit silver on his facings
picked him out as Commandant O'Brien.

He vanished through the French windows into the house, leaving