To return to Fairview.  Victoria, after sharing her five o’clock luncheon with her dogs, went to seek her father, for the purpose (if it must be told) of asking him for a cheque.  Mr. Flint was at Fairview on the average of two days out of the week during the summer, and then he was nearly always closeted with a secretary and two stenographers and a long-distance telephone in two plain little rooms at the back of the house.  And Mr. Hilary Vane was often in consultation with him, as he was on the present occasion when Victoria flung open the door.  At sight of Mr. Vane she halted suddenly on the threshold, and a gleam of mischief came into her eye as she thrust her hand into her coat pocket.  The two regarded her with the detached air of men whose thread of thought has been broken.

“Well, Victoria,” said her father, kindly if resignedly, “what is it now?”

“Money,” replied Victoria, promptly; “I went to Avalon this morning and bought that horse you said I might have.”

“What horse?” asked Mr. Flint, vaguely.  “But never mind.  Tell Mr. Freeman to make out the cheque.”

Mr. Vane glanced at Mr. Flint, and his eyes twinkled.  Victoria, who had long ago discovered the secret of the Honey Dew, knew that he was rolling it under his tongue and thinking her father a fool for his indulgence.

“How do you do, Mr. Vane?” she said; “Austen’s coming home, isn’t he?” She had got this by feminine arts out of Mr. Paul Pardriff, to whom she had not confided the fact of her possession of the clipping.

The Honourable Hilary gave a grunt, as he always did when he was surprised and displeased, as though some one had prodded him with a stick in a sensitive spot.

“Your son?  Why, Vane, you never told me that,” said Mr. Flint.  “I didn’t know that you knew him, Victoria.”

“I don’t,” answered Victoria, “but I’d like to.  What did he do to Mr. Blodgett?” she demanded of Hilary.

“Mr. Blodgett!” exclaimed that gentleman.  “I never heard of him.  What’s happened to him?”

“He will probably recover,” she assured him.

The Honourable Hilary, trying in vain to suppress his agitation, rose to his feet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Victoria,” he said, but his glance was fixed on the clipping in her hand.

“Haven’t you seen it?” she asked, giving it to him.

He read it in silence, groaned, and handed it to Mr. Flint, who had been drumming on the table and glancing at Victoria with vague disapproval.  Mr. Flint read it and gave it back to the Honourable Hilary, who groaned again and looked out of the window.

“Why do you feel badly about it?” asked Victoria.  “I’d be proud of him, if I were you.”

“Proud of him” echoed Mr. Vane, grimly.  “Proud of him!”

“Victoria, what do you mean?” said Mr. Flint.

“Why not?” said Victoria.  “He’s done nothing to make you ashamed.  According to that clipping, he’s punished a man who richly deserved to be punished, and he has the sympathy of an entire county.”