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Session House. He was not smiling, he looked as grave as his facial conformation would allow. Very slowly, very deliberately, he buttoned the white gloves over his huge hands. He looked at his watch, and, as he did so, the East Mannery party came out, Lady Morte-Mannery a little ahead, Sir Ralph following with two or three of his guests.
    â€œWill you drive over in the car with us, or will you take the wagonette,” asked Sir Ralph, pleasantly. He was rather in awe of the big barrister—as much in awe as he could be of anybody—and he invariably cloaked his uneasiness with a certain perkiness of manner which passed with Sir Ralph for good-humour.
    â€œI’m not coming over, Ralph,” said Hilary George, quietly.
    The Chairman raised his brows.
    â€œNot coming over?” he repeated. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI’m going back to town,” said Hilary, slowly as before.
    â€œBut why? What has happened? I thought you were keen on the shooting.”
    â€œI’d rather not say why,” said Hilary. “If you’ll be good enough to tell my man to bring my boxes to the station—I’ll amuse myself in Burboro’ for another hour.”
    â€œBut what is the reason?” persisted Sir Ralph. “Have you had any news? Is there any necessity for your going back to town?”
    Hilary scratched his chin reflectively.
    â€œI’ll tell you,” he said, and faced the other squarely. “You’ve just sentenced a man to seven years penal servitude.”
    â€œYes?” replied Sir Ralph, wonderingly.
    â€œIt was a perfectly beastly sentence,” said the K.C., and every word cut like a knife. “A perfectly beastly, malicious, vindictive, unjust sentence,” he repeated, “and I would not stay another hour in the house of the man who passed it.
    â€œMore than this!” he said, with a sudden accession of fierceness and benevolent malignity, if the paradox may be allowed, which almost paralyzed his hearer, “I will not rest until that sentence is reduced. My solicitors shall take it to the Court of Appeal.”
    â€œYou—you—how dare you!” spluttered Sir Ralph.
    â€œA perfectly beastly sentence,” repeated the other, with annoying deliberation. “Don’t talk to me, Sir Ralph, I’m not a tyro, I’m a barrister. I know the game better than you. I know what sentence was justifiable there. I know exactly how your own personal prejudice stepped in to confine this man—this young man, a first offender—to a living hell.”
    He spoke with vehemence, his plump face growing redder and redder as his anger rose.
    â€œI will never forgive you, Hilary,” cried Sir Ralph, shaking with anger. “You have mortally offended me. You know I believe in long sentences.”
    â€œI don’t care a damn what you believe in,” said the other, and his very calmness emphasized the strength of his language. “I bid you good morning.”
    He walked over to where Lady Morte-Mannery stood watching them.
    â€œI am sorry, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said, a little stiffly. “I shall not be coming back to the house. An important engagement has called me to London.”
    She murmured her sorrow conventionally, though she was by no means displeased to see the back of a man whom at first she had regarded as one who might easily be influenced to her views. Her views, it may here be remarked, were peculiar.
    â€œWhy has he gone?” she asked her husband, as the car drove through the main street of Burboro’.
    Sir Ralph, who was glowering with rage, vouchsafed a snarling answer.
    â€œHow do I know? Why do you ask ridiculous questions? Because he’s a fool,” he went on viciously. “Because he’s a blackguard. He’s grossly insulted me, and I’ll never forgive him.” He was in a white heat of temper, and for the whole day brooded on the affront which had