Mr. Buxton felt a sudden desperate sinking, and he could not answer for a moment. The magistrate passed his shaking hand over his mouth and beard once or twice; but the thrust had gone home, and there was no parry or riposte. He followed it up.
“Now, sir, be reasonable. I came in here to make terms. We know the priest has been here. It is certain beyond all question. All that is uncertain is whether he is here now or escaped. We have searched thoroughly; we must search again to-morrow; but in the meanwhile, while you yourself must be under restraint, your guests shall have what liberty they wish; and you yourself shall have all reasonable comfort and ease. So—so, if we do not find the priest, I trust that you and—and—Mistress Corbet will agree to overlook any rashness on my part—and—and let her Grace remain in ignorance.”
Mr. Buxton had been thinking furiously during this little speech. He saw the mistake he had made in taking the high line, and his wretched forgetfulness of the fourth place at table. He must make terms, though it tasted bitter.
“Well, Mr. Graves,” he said, “I have no wish to be hard upon you. All I ask is to be out of the house when the search is made, and that the ladies shall come and go as they please.”
The magistrate leapt at the lure like a trout.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Buxton, it shall be as you say. And to what house will you retire?”
Mr. Buxton appeared to reflect; he tapped on the table with a meditative finger and looked at the ceiling.
“It must not be too far away,” he said slowly, “and—and the Rector would scarce like to receive me. Perhaps in—or——Why not my summer-house?” he added suddenly.
Mr. Graves’ face was irradiated with smiles.
“Thank you, Mr. Buxton, certainly, it shall be as you say. And where is the summer-house?”