hideous and libellous
things that had been said about him. Until they were removed, until they
passed into non-existence again, nothing had any significance for him.
Everything was coloured with them; bitterness as of blood tinged
everything. Hours, too, must pass before they could be removed; this long
midsummer day had to draw to its end, night had to pass; the hour of
early dawn, the long morning had to be numbered with the past before he
could even learn who was responsible for this poisoned tale.

And when he learned, or rather when his conjecture was confirmed as to
who it was (for his supposition was conjecture in the sense that it only
wanted the actual seal of reality on it) what should he do next? Or
rather what must he do next? He felt that when he knew absolutely for
certain who had said this about him, a force of indignation and hatred,
which at present he kept chained up, must infallibly break its chain, and
become merely a wild beast let loose. He felt he would be no longer
responsible for what he did, something had to happen; something more than
mere apology or retraction of words. To lie and slander like that was a
crime, an insult against human and divine justice. It would be nothing
for the criminal to say he was sorry; he had to be punished. A man who
did that was not fit to live; he was a man no longer, he was a biting,
poisonous reptile, who for the sake of the community must be expunged.
Yet human justice which hanged people for violent crimes committed under
great provocation, dealt more lightly with this far more devilish thing,
a crime committed coldly and calculatingly, that had planned not the mere
death of his body, but the disgrace and death of his character. Godfrey
Mills--he checked the word and added to himself "if it was he"--had
morally tried to kill him.

Morris, after his interview that morning with Mr. Taynton, had lunched
alone in Sussex Square, his mother having gone that day up to London for
two nights. His plan had been to go up with her, but he had excused
himself on the plea of business with his trustees, and she had gone
alone. Directly after lunch he had taken the motor out, and had whirled
along the coast road, past Rottingdean through Newhaven and Seaford, and
ten miles farther until the suburbs of Eastbourne had begun. There he
turned, his thoughts still running a mill-race in his head, and retracing
his road had by now come back to within a mile of Brighton again. The s