Alton’s face grew almost purple, but the dark hue faded and left it unusually pale again.  “That,” he said very slowly, “is a damnable lie.  The lady alluded to was here once only, and for at the most three minutes.”

The other man grew a trifle uneasy under his gaze.  “Of course,” he said, “your word will do for me.  Still, she was here, you see—­and it’s difficult to rub out a lie with that much behind it.  I’m afraid you’ll find it stick to you both like glue, especially as her employers turned the girl out immediately.  Anyway, I’ll do what I can for you, and now about that other car-load and the cattle?”

Alton brought his hand down crashing on the table.  “The cattle?  Oh, get out and come back to-morrow or next month, when I feel less like killing somebody!”

The other man appeared quite willing to accept his dismissal, and Alton vacantly noticed that a black stream of ink was trickling across the table.  Mechanically he dabbled his handkerchief in it and then flung it and the ink-vessel into the grate, after which he sat still with a black stain upon the cheek that rested on his fist.

“The plucky little soul—­and they’ve turned her out,” he said.  “Lord, but somebody has got to pay for this!”

He did not move for at least ten minutes, while the clamour of the city vibrated through the silent room, and when his first anger passed away became sensible of a great pity for the girl who had risked so much for him.  It appeared only too probable that because of the modicum of truth it was founded on the lie would stick to both of them, and now when it was too late Alton regretted his folly.  He had been fully justified in kicking Cartier out of his rooms, but he knew that everything that is legitimate is not advisable, and groaned as he saw what the story must cost the defenceless girl who had a living to earn and her father to maintain.  There was so far as he could see no way out of the difficulty yet—­and the one that concerned himself was almost as formidable, for he knew Alice Deringham’s pride, and the damning fact remained that he could not deny the whole story.

He had flung himself back wearily in his chair when there was a step in the passage and a young man came in.  He walked straight forward, and stood with one hand on Alton’s table looking down on him with wonder and anger in his face.  His eyes were unusually bright, and there was a great contusion on his forehead.

“Jack,” said Alton simply.  “Well, sit down there, and I’ll try to talk to you.  This is a devlish mess I’ve got into.  Only heard about it ten minutes ago.”

Jack Townshead did not move at all.  “I’ll stand in the meantime.” he said harshly.  “Unfortunately there are more concerned than you.”

“Yes,” said Alton wearily.  “Don’t rub it in.  I know.  Who was it told you?”

“That’s beyond the question,” said the lad.  “Still, last night one of our men who’d been down here came in and was telling the story in the boys’ sleeping-shed.  I knocked him down—­that is, I meant to, and started out by the first train.  I’m at the mine on the south road now.”