"This is Mr. Frank Guiseley--of Merefield.... It is, really! But we don't want more people talking than are necessary. You understand?

Please don't say anything about it, except that he's come on a walking-tour. And please tell the housekeeper to get the Blue Room ready, and let somebody turn on the hot water in the bath-room until further notice. That's all, Jackson ... and the clothes. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And get the _eau de lubin_ from my dressing-room and put it in the bath-room. Oh, yes; and the wooden bowl of soap."

"These clothes of mine are not to be thrown away, please, Jackson,"

said Frank gravely from the chair. "I shall want them again."

"Yes, sir."

"That's all, then," said Jack.

Mr. Jackson turned stiffly and left the room.

"It's all right," said Jack. "You remember old Jackson. He won't say a word. Lucky no one saw us as we came up."

"It doesn't matter much, does it?" said Frank.

There was a pause.

"I say, Frank, when will you tell me--"

"I'll answer any questions after dinner to-night. I simply can't talk now."

Dinner was a little difficult that night.

Mrs. Kirkby had been subjected to a long lecture from her son during the half hour in which she ought to have been dressing, in order to have it firmly implanted in her mind that Frank--whom she had known from a boy--was simply and solely in the middle of a walking-tour all by himself. She understood the situation perfectly in a minute and a half--(she was a very shrewd woman who did not say much)--but Jack was not content. He hovered about her room, fingering photographs and silver-handled brushes, explaining over and over again how important it was that Frank should be made to feel at his case, and that f.a.n.n.y and Jill--(who were just old enough to come to dinner in white high-necked frocks that came down to their very slender ankles, and thick pig-tails down their backs)--must not be allowed to bother him. Mrs. Kirkby said, "Yes, I understand," about a hundred and thirty times, and glanced at the clock. She stood with one finger on the electric b.u.t.ton for at least five minutes before venturing to ring for her maid, and it was only that lady's discreet tap at one minute before eight that finally got Jack out of the room. He looked in on Frank in the middle of his dressing, found to his relief that an oldish suit of dress-clothes fitted him quite decently, and then went to put on his own. He came down to the drawing-room seven minutes after the gong with his ears very red and his hair in a plume, to find Frank talking to his mother, and eyed by his sisters who were pretending to look at photographs, with all the ease in the world.

But dinner itself was difficult. It was the obvious thing to talk about Frank's "walking-tour"; and yet this was exactly what Jack dared not do.

The state of the moors, and the deplorable ravages made among the young grouse by the early rains, occupied them all to the end of fish; to the grouse succeeded the bullocks: to the bullocks, the sheep, and, by an obvious connection--obvious to all who knew that gentleman--from the sheep to the new curate.

But just before the chocolate _soufflee_ there came a pause, and Jill, the younger of the two sisters, hastened to fill the gap.

"Did you have a nice walking-tour, Mr. Guiseley?"

Frank turned to her politely.

"Yes, very nice, considering," he said.

"Have you been alone all the time?" pursued Jill, conscious of a social success.

"Well, no," said Frank. "I was traveling with a ... well, with a man who was an officer in the army. He was a major."

"And did you--"

"That's enough, Jill," said her mother decidedly. "Don't bother Mr.

Guiseley. He's tired with his walk."

The two young men sat quiet for a minute or two after the ladies had left the room. Then Jack spoke.

"Well?" he said.

Frank looked up. There was an odd, patient kind of look in his eyes that touched Jack a good deal. Frank had not been distinguished for submissiveness. .h.i.therto.

"Oh! a bit later, if you don't mind," he said. "We can talk in the smoking-room."

(IV)

"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing as far as I understand it," began Frank, as the door closed behind Jackson, who had brought whisky and candles. "And then I'll answer any questions you want."

He settled himself back in his chair, stretching out his legs and clasping his hands behind his head. Jack had a good view of him and could take notice of his own impressions, though he found them hard to put into words afterwards. The words he finally chose were "subdued" and "patient" again, and there are hardly two words that would have been less applicable to Frank three months before. At the same time his virility was more noticeable than ever; he had about him, Jack said, something of the air of a very good groom--a hard-featured and sharp, yet not at all unkindly look, very capable and, at the same time, very much restrained. There was no sentimental nonsense about him at all--his sorrow had not taken that form.

"Well, I needn't talk much about Jenny's last letter and what happened after that. I was entirely unprepared, of course. I hadn't the faintest idea--Well, she was the one person about whom I had no doubts at all! I actually left the letter unread for a few minutes (the envelope was in your handwriting, you know)--because I had to think over what I had to do next. The police had got me turned away from a builder's yard--"

Jack emitted a small sound. He was staring at Frank with all his eyes.

"Yes; that's their way," said Frank. "Well, when I read it, I simply couldn't think any more at all for a time. The girl we were traveling with--she had picked up with the man I had got into trouble over, you know--the girl was calling me to dinner, she told me afterwards. I didn't hear a sound. She came and touched me at last, and I woke up. But I couldn't say anything. They don't even now know what's the matter. I came away that afternoon. I couldn't even wait for the Major--"

"Eh?"

"The Major.... Oh! that's what the chap calls himself. I don't think he's lying, either. I simply couldn't stand him another minute just then. But I sent them a postcard that night--I forget where from; and--There aren't any letters for me, are there?

"One or two bills."

"Oh! well, I shall hear soon, I expect. I must join them again in a day or two. They're somewhere in this direction, I know."

"And what did you do?"

Frank considered.

"I'm not quite sure. I know I walked a great deal. People were awfully good to me. One woman stopped her motor--and I hadn't begged, either--"

"You! Begged!"

"Lord, yes; lots of times.... Well, she gave me a quid, and I didn't even thank her. And that lasted me very well, and I did a little work too, here and there."

"But, good Lord! what did you do?"

"I walked. I couldn't bear towns or people or anything. I got somewhere outside of Ripon at last, and went out on to the moors. I found an old shepherd's hut for about a week or ten days--"

"And you--"

"Lived there? Yes. I mended the hut thoroughly before I came away. And then I thought I'd come on here."

"What were you doing on the bridge?"

"Waiting till dark. I was going to ask at the lodge then whether you were at home."