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Updated: June 28, 2025
Robert Audley was looking at his uncle's wife with rather a puzzled expression of countenance. "What does it mean?" he thought. "She is altogether a different being to the wretched, helpless creature who dropped her mask for a moment, and looked at me with her own pitiful face, in the little room at Mount Stanning, four hours ago. What has happened to cause the change?"
Drummond opened his door just as Stanning and his myrmidons were passing it. "Hullo, Stanning," he said. Stanning turned. The punitive expedition stopped. "Do you want anything?" inquired Drummond politely. The members of the senior day-room who were with Stanning rallied round, silent and interested. This dramatic situation appealed to them.
Yet it is one of the things which everybody knows, that they are in the black books of the authorities, and that sooner or later, in the picturesque phrase of the New Yorker, they will "get it in the neck". To this class Stanning and Attell belonged. It was plain to all that the former was the leading member of the firm.
She held out her hand; he took it loosely in his own. It seemed such a feeble little hand that he might have crushed it in his strong grasp, had he chosen to be so pitiless. He attended her to her carriage, and watched it as it drove off, not toward Audley, but in the direction of Brentwood, which was about six miles from Mount Stanning.
Not a bit of it. He swore you hadn't been with him at all. He was as sick as anything when I said I thought I'd seen you with him." "I " Sheen stopped. "I wish I'd known," he concluded. Then, after a pause, "So it was Stanning!" "Yes, conceited beast. Oh. I say." "Um?" "I see it all now. Joe Bevan taught you to box." "Yes." "Then that's how you came to be at the 'Blue Boar' that day.
Linton had been listening to this conversation in silence. He had come to the senior day-room to borrow a book. He now slipped out, and made his way to Drummond's study. Drummond was in. Linton proceeded to business. "I say, Drummond." "Hullo?" "That man Stanning has come in. He's getting the senior day-room to rag Sheen's study." "What!" Linton repeated his statement.
Barkamb, the owner of North Cottages, Wildernsea, would no doubt consent to throw some light upon this matter; either to dispel a delusion or to confirm a suspicion. "March 3, 1859. "The Castle Inn, Mount Stanning." My lady crushed the letter fiercely in her hand, and flung it from her into the flames.
"He's a witness," said Linton, grinning. Sheen got up. "Come on," he said. Linton came on. Down in the senior day-room the court was patiently awaiting the prisoner. Eager anticipation was stamped on its expressive features. "Beastly time he is," said Clayton. Clayton was acting as president. "We shall have to buck up," said Stanning. "Hullo, here he is at last. Come in, Linton."
There was a "confused noise without", as Shakespeare would put it, and into the shop came clattering Barry and McTodd, of Seymour's, closely followed by Stanning and Attell. "This is getting a bit too thick," said Barry, collapsing into a chair. From the outer shop came the voice of Sergeant Cook. "Let me jest come to you, you red-'eaded " Roars of derision from the road.
After all, who was Stanning? What right had he to come and sit on tables in Seymour's and interfere with the affairs of the house? The allusion to "last time" was lost upon Sheen, but he saw that it had not improved Stanning's position with the spectators. He opened the door. "Good bye, Stanning," he said. "If I hadn't hurt my wrist " Stanning began. "Hurt your wrist!" said Sheen.
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