Terrific
it was. His lordship had emerged from the chemist's across the street.
He paused a moment, as if to recall his next mission, then walked
briskly off. And this is what I had been stupefied to note: he was
clean shaven! The Brinstead side-whiskers were gone! Whiskers that had
been worn in precisely that fashion by a tremendous line of the Earls
of Brinstead! And the tenth of his line had abandoned them. As well, I
thought, could he have defaced the Brinstead arms.
It was plain as a pillar-box, indeed. The woman had our family at her
mercy, and she would show no mercy. My heart sank as I pictured the
Honourable George in her toils. My dream had been prophetic. Then I
reflected that this very circumstance of his lordship's having
pandered to her lawless whim about his beard would go to show he had
not yet given up the fight. If the thing were hopeless I knew he would
have seen her--dashed--before he would have relinquished it. There
plainly was still hope for poor George. Indeed his lordship might well
have planned some splendid coup; this defacement would be a part of
his strategy, suffered in anguish for his ultimate triumph. Quite
cheered I became at the thought. I still scanned the street crowd for
some one who could acquaint me with developments I must have missed.
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