ir Oliver."

He departed to return presently with a black jack that was steaming
fragrantly. He found his master still in the same attitude, staring at
the fire, and frowning darkly. Sir Oliver's thoughts were still of his
brother and Malpas, and so insistent were they that his own concerns
were for the moment quite neglected; he was considering whether it was
not his duty, after all, to attempt a word of remonstrance. At length
he rose with a sigh and got to table. There he bethought him of his sick
groom, and asked Nicholas for news of him. Nicholas reported the fellow
to be much as he had been, whereupon Sir Oliver took up a cup and
brimmed it with the steaming posset.

"Take him that," he said. "There's no better medicine for such an
ailment."

Outside fell a clatter of hooves.

"Here be Master Lionel at last," said the servant.

"No doubt," agreed Sir Oliver. "No need to stay for him. Here is all he
needs. Carry that to Tom ere it cools."

It was his object to procure the servant's absence when Lionel should
arrive, resolved as he was to greet him with a sound rating for his
folly. Reflection had brought him the assurance that this was become
his duty in view of his projected absence from Penarrow; and in his
brother's interest he was determined not to spare him.

He took a deep draught of the posset, and as he set it down he heard
Lionel's step without. Then the door was flung open, and his brother
stood on the threshold a moment at gaze.

Sir Oliver looked round with a scowl, the well-considered reproof
already on his lips.

"So...." he began, and got no further. The sight that met his eyes drove
the ready words from his lips and mind; instead it was with a sharp gasp
of dismay that he came immediately to his feet. "Lionel!"

Lionel lurched in, closed the door, and shot home one of its bolts. Then
he leaned against it, facing his brother again. He was deathly pale,
with great dark stains under his eyes; his ungloved right hand was
pressed to his side, and the fingers of it were all smeared with blood
that was still oozing and dripping from between them. Over his yellow
doublet on the right side there was a spreading dark stain whose nature
did not intrigue Sir Oliver a moment.

"My God!" he cried, and ran to his brother. "What's happened, Lal? Who
has done this?"

"Peter Godolphin," came the answer from lips that writhed in a curious
smile.

Never a word said Sir Oliver, but he set his teeth and