Without a word, with the briefest possible glance in Judith's direction, he turned sharply round on his heel, and passed quickly up the staircase, to Uncle Bond's quarters.
He flung open the door of Uncle Bond's writing room, without knocking—
"I have come—to place myself under arrest, Uncle Bond," he exclaimed. "I have come—to put myself into safe custody. I can't—trust myself."
Uncle Bond, busy at his writing table, laid down his pencil, and turned in his chair.
"Shut the door, my boy," he said. "I accept the responsibility you have offered me. It is a responsibility which I would have accepted before—but I did not care to interfere, between you and Judith, until it was offered to me."
The King shut the door.
"Fortunately, 'Cynthia' and I have just finished our climax," Uncle Bond chuckled. "I can blow out the candles, and devote myself to you."
He blew out the candles on the writing table, the only light in the room.
"Sit down, my boy," he said. "Can you feel your way to the sofa? The moon rises late tonight. In this dubious, half light, we may be able to talk—at our ease."
The King found his way to the sofa, under the windows, without any difficulty, and sat down.