He opened his
lungs to it, and it was wine to his blood; he felt strong enough to
slay dragons. "But who could the liar be? Not Lizzie herself,
surely! Not--"

He pulled up short in a hollow of the towans.

"Not--George?"

Treachery is a hideous thing; and to youth so incomprehensibly
hideous that it darkens the sun. Yet every trusting man must be
betrayed. That was one of the lessons of Christ's life on earth.
It is the last and severest test; it kills many, morally, and no man
who has once met and looked it in the face departs the same man,
though he may be a stronger one.

"_Not George?_"

Taffy stood there so still that the rabbits crept out and, catching
sight of him, paused in the mouths of their burrows. When at length
he moved on it was to take, not the path which wound inland to
Mendarva's, but the one which led straight over the higher moors to
Carwithiel.

It was between one and two o'clock when he reached the house and
asked to see Mr. and Mrs. George Vyell, They were not at home, the
footman said; had left for Falmouth the evening before to join some
friends on a yachting cruise. Sir Harry was at home; was, indeed,
lunching at that moment; but would no doubt be pleased to see Mr.
Raymond.

Sir Harry had finished his lunch, and sat sipping his claret and
tossing scraps of biscuits to the dogs.

"Hullo, Raymond!--thought you were in Oxford. Sit down, my boy;
delighted to see you. Thomas, a knife and fork for Mr. Raymond.
The cutlets are cold, I'm afraid; but I can recommend the cold
saddle, and the ham--it's a York ham. Go to the sideboard and forage
for yourself. I wanted company. My boy and Honoria are at Falmouth
yachting, and have left me alone. What, you won't eat? A glass of
claret, then, at any rate."

"To tell the truth, Sir Harry," Taffy began awkwardly. "I've come on
a disagreeable business."

Sir Harry's face fell. He hated disagreeable business. He flipped a
piece of biscuit at his spaniel's nose and sat back, crossing his
legs.

"Won't it keep?"

"To me it's important."

"Oh, fire away then: only help yourself to the claret first."

"A girl--Lizzie Pezzack, living over at Langona--has had a child
born--"

"Stop a moment. Do I know her?--Ah, to be sure--daughter of old
Pezzack, the light-keeper--a brown-coloured girl with her hair over
her eyes. Well, I'm not surprised. Wants money, I suppose?
Who's the father?"

"I don't know."

"Well, but--damn it