And when he learned, or rather when his conjecture was confirmed as to who it was (for his supposition was conjecture in the sense that it only wanted the actual seal of reality on it) what should he do next?  Or rather what must he do next?  He felt that when he knew absolutely for certain who had said this about him, a force of indignation and hatred, which at present he kept chained up, must infallibly break its chain, and become merely a wild beast let loose.  He felt he would be no longer responsible for what he did, something had to happen; something more than mere apology or retraction of words.  To lie and slander like that was a crime, an insult against human and divine justice.  It would be nothing for the criminal to say he was sorry; he had to be punished.  A man who did that was not fit to live; he was a man no longer, he was a biting, poisonous reptile, who for the sake of the community must be expunged.  Yet human justice which hanged people for violent crimes committed under great provocation, dealt more lightly with this far more devilish thing, a crime committed coldly and calculatingly, that had planned not the mere death of his body, but the disgrace and death of his character.  Godfrey Mills—­he checked the word and added to himself “if it was he”—­had morally tried to kill him.

Morris, after his interview that morning with Mr. Taynton, had lunched alone in Sussex Square, his mother having gone that day up to London for two nights.  His plan had been to go up with her, but he had excused himself on the plea of business with his trustees, and she had gone alone.  Directly after lunch he had taken the motor out, and had whirled along the coast road, past Rottingdean through Newhaven and Seaford, and ten miles farther until the suburbs of Eastbourne had begun.  There he turned, his thoughts still running a mill-race in his head, and retracing his road had by now come back to within a mile of Brighton again.  The sun gilded the smooth channel, the winds were still, the hot midsummer afternoon lay heavy on the land.  Then he stopped the motor and got out, telling Martin to wait there.

He walked over the strip of velvety down grass to the edge of the white cliffs, and there sat down.  The sea below him whispered and crawled, above the sun was the sole tenant of the sky, and east and west the down was empty of passengers.  He, like his soul, was alone, and alone he had to think these things out.

Yes, this liar and slanderer, whoever he was, had tried to kill him.  The attempt had been well-planned too, for the chances had been a thousand to one in favour of the murderer.  But the one chance had turned up, Madge had loved him, and she had been brave, setting at defiance the order of her father, and had seen him secretly, and told him all the circumstances of this attack on him.  But supposing she had been just a shade less brave, supposing her filial obedience had weighed an ounce heavier?  Then he would never