Buntingford rose automatically, went to the door, spoke to the servant who had knocked, and came back with a note in his hand, which he took to the window to read.

Then with steps which seemed to French to waver like those of a man half drunk he went to his writing-desk, and wrote a reply which he gave to the servant who was waiting in the passage.

He stood a moment thinking, his hand over his eyes, before he approached his nephew.
"Geoffrey, will you please take my place at dinner to-night?
I am going out.

Make any excuse you like." He moved away--but turned back again, speaking with much difficulty--"The woman you saw--is at the Rectory.
Alcott took her in last night.

He writes to me.