ry desperately cared, so he must do his best; he must walk into the
fire and wrest out of it what he could.

And at last the door opened, and Denis Urquhart came in.

He was just as usual, leisurely and fair and tranquil, only usually he
smiled at Peter, and to-day he did not smile. One might have fancied
under his tranquillity a restrained nervousness. He did not shake
hands; but then Peter and he never did shake hands when they met.

He said, "Sit down, won't you. My uncle isn't available just now, so
I have come instead.... You have something to say to him, haven't you?"

He sat down himself, and waited, looking at the splinters of glass on the
floor.

Peter stood, and his breath came shortly. Yes, he had something to say to
Lord Evelyn, but nothing to Lord Evelyn's nephew. He grew hot and cold,
and stammered something, he did not know what.

"Yes?" said Denis, in his soft, casual voice, politely expectant.

Peter, who did not, after all, lack a certain desperate courage, walked
into the fire, with braced will. It was bad that Denis should be brought
into the business; but it had to be gone through, all the same.

"I only wanted to know ... to know ... what Lord Evelyn is going to do
about this matter." He jerked out the words like stones from a catapult.

Denis was silent for a moment. He disliked being dragged into this
revolting affair; but he had had to come and see Peter, since his uncle
refused and he could not let Peter go unseen away. He didn't want to see
him ever again, since he had behaved as he had behaved, but neither did
he want to violate the laws of courtesy and hospitality.

"I don't quite know," he said, after a moment.

"Is he ... does he intend to prosecute?" Peter asked, blushing.

Denis answered to that at once: "I shall certainly do my best to prevent
anything of the sort. I don't think he will. At present he is still very
angry; but I think when he cools down he will see reason. To prosecute
would be to make himself absurd; he will see that, no doubt. He values
his reputation as an art connoisseur, you see." At the faint, cool irony
in the words, Peter winced.

"Of course," went on Denis, lighting a cigarette, "your brother will
leave Venice at once, I suppose?" He passed Peter his cigarette box;
Peter refused it.

"Naturally. We mean to leave as soon as we can.... Thank you, that is all
I had to say.... Good-bye."

Denis got up, and Peter saw relief through the mask of politen