ster sank heavily on to a chair and instantly sprang up from
it with a howl as he chanced on several tokens of the gorse-bush's
clinging affection.

"I've been stoned--stoned by some hulking scoundrels on the common!" he
cried; and he displayed the considerable bump rising on his marble brow.

Mrs. Dangerfield was full of concern and sympathy; Sir Maurice was
cool, interested but cool; he did not blaze up into the passionate
indignation of a bosom friend.

"How many of them were there?" said the Terror.

"From the number of stones they threw I should think there were a
dozen," said Captain Baster; and he panted still.

The Terror looked puzzled.

"I know--I know what it is!" cried Mrs. Dangerfield with an
illuminating flash of womanly intuition. "You've been humorous with
some of the villagers!"

"No, no! I haven't joked with a single one of them!" cried Captain
Baster. "But I'll teach the scoundrels a lesson! I'll put the police
on them tomorrow morning. I'll send for a detective from London. I'll
prosecute them."

Then Erebus entered, her piquant face all aglow: "I couldn't find your
handkerchief anywhere, Mum. It took me ever such a time," she said,
giving it to her.

The puzzled air faded from the Terror's face; and he said in a tone of
deep meaning: "Have you been running to find it? You're quite out of
breath."

For a moment a horrid suspicion filled the mind of Captain Baster. . .
. But no: it was impossible--a child in whose veins flowed some of the
bluest blood in England. Besides, her slender arms could never have
thrown the stones as straight and hard as that.

On the other hand Sir Maurice appeared to have lost for once his superb
self-possession; he was staring at his beautiful niece with his mouth
slightly open. He muttered; something about finding his handkerchief,
and stumbled out of the room. They heard a door bang up-stairs; then,
through the ceiling, they heard a curious drumming sound. It occurred
to the Terror that it might be the heels of Sir Maurice on the floor.

Mrs. Dangerfield rang for old Sarah and instructed her to pull the
gorse prickles out of Captain Baster's clothes. She had nearly
finished when Sir Maurice returned. He carried a handkerchief in his
hand, and he had recovered his superb self-possession; but he seemed
somewhat exhausted.

Captain Baster was somewhat excessive in the part of the wounded hero;
and for a while he continued to talk ferociously