Malcourt, very white, nodded: 

“It is so useless,” he said—­“all this bitterness.  You don’t know what you’re saying....  But I suppose you can’t help it....  It always has been that way; things go to smash if I try to do anything....  Well, Hamil, we’ll go on in your own fashion, if we must—­for a while.  But”—­and he laughed mirthlessly—­“if it ends in a little shooting—­you mustn’t blame me!”

Hamil surveyed him in cold displeasure.

“I always expected you’d find your level,” he observed.

“Yes, I’ll find it,” mused Malcourt, “as soon as I know what it ought to be.  Under pressure it is difficult to ascertain such things; one’s true level may be higher or lower.  My father and I have often discussed this matter—­and the ethics of straight shooting.”

Hamil’s eyes narrowed.

“If you mean that as a threat”—­he began contemptuously; but Malcourt, who had suddenly assumed that curious listening attitude, raised his hand impatiently, as though silencing interruption.

And long after Hamil had turned on his heel and gone, he stood there, graceful head lowered a little and partly turned as though poetically appreciative of the soft twittering music which the bluebirds were making among the falling apple-bloom.

Then, slowly, not noticing Hamil’s departure, he retraced his steps through the garden, head slightly inclined, as though to catch the murmur of some invisible companion accompanying him.  Once or twice he nodded, a strange smile creeping over his face; once his lips moved as though asking a question; no sound came from them, but apparently he had his answer, for he nodded assent, halted, drew a deep breath, and looked upward.

“We can try that,” he said aloud in his naturally pleasant voice; and, entering the house, went upstairs to his wife’s apartments.

Shiela’s maid answered his knock; a moment later, Shiela herself, gowned for the afternoon, came to the door, and her maid retired.

“Do you mind my stepping in a moment?” he asked.

She glanced back into her own bedroom, closed the door, and led the way to the small living-room at the other end of the house.

“Where’s that maid of yours?” he asked.

“Sewing in my dressing-room.  Shall I send her downstairs?”

“Yes; it’s better.”

So Shiela went away and returned shortly saying that her maid had gone; and then, with a questioning gesture to her husband, she seated herself by the open window and looked out into the sunshine, waiting for him to speak.

“Do you know,” he said abruptly, “what saved Cardross, Carrick & Co. from going to the wall?”

“What?” The quick, crisp question sounded like the crack of a tiny whip.

He looked at her, languidly amused.

“You knew there was a panic?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“You knew that your father and Mr. Carrick were worried?”