by this explosive
unsealing of his lips less than half an hour after the departure of de
Barral's cousin with de Barral's daughter. It was still in the
dining-room, very near the time for him to go forth affronting the
elements in order to put in another day's work in his country's service.
All he could say at the moment in elucidation of this breakdown from
his usual placid solemnity was:

"The fellow imagines that de Barral has got some plunder put away
somewhere."

This being the theory arrived at by Fyne, his comment on it was that a
good many bankrupts had been known to have taken such a precaution. It
was possible in de Barral's case. Fyne went so far in his display of
cynical pessimism as to say that it was extremely probable.

He explained at length to Mrs Fyne that de Barral certainly did not
take anyone into his confidence. But the beastly relative had made up
his low mind that it was so. He was selfish and pitiless in his
stupidity, but he had clearly conceived the notion of making a claim on
de Barral when de Barral came out of prison on the strength of having
"looked after" (as he would have himself expressed it) his daughter. He
nursed his hopes, such as they were, in secret, and it is to be supposed
kept them even from his wife.

I could see it very well. That belief accounted for his mysterious air
while he interfered in favour of the girl. He was the only protector
she had. It was as though Flora had been fated to be always surrounded
by treachery and lies stifling every better impulse, every instinctive
aspiration of her soul to trust and to love. It would have been enough
to drive a fine nature into the madness of universal suspicion--into any
sort of madness. I don't know how far a sense of humour will stand by
one. To the foot of the gallows, perhaps. But from my recollection of
Flora de Barral I feared that she hadn't much sense of humour. She had
cried at the desertion of the absurd Fyne dog. That animal was
certainly free from duplicity. He was frank and simple and ridiculous.
The indignation of the girl at his unhypocritical behaviour had been
funny but not humorous.

As you may imagine I was not very anxious to resume the discussion on
the justice, expediency, effectiveness or what not, of Fyne's journey to
London. It isn't that I was unfaithful to little Fyne out in the porch
with the dog. (They kept amazingly quiet there. Could they have gone
to sleep?) What I felt