The other nodded. (Things were beginning to resolve themselves in his mind.)

“Well, will you give me your word not to tell a soul I’m here, and I’ll tell you who I am?  You’ve forgotten me, I see.  But I’m afraid you may remember.  D’you see?”

“All right.”

“I’m Guiseley, of Drew’s.  We were in the same division once—­up to Rawlins.  Do you remember?”

“Good Lord!  But—­”

“Yes, I know.  But don’t let’s go into that.  I’ve not done anything I shouldn’t.  That’s not the reason I’m like this.  It’s just turned out so.  And there’s something else I want to talk to you about.  When can I come and see you privately?  I’m going to begin work to-morrow at the jam factory.”

The other man clutched at his whirling faculties.

“To-night—­at ten.  Will that do?”

“All right.  What am I to say—­when I ring the bell, I mean?”

“Just ask for me.  They’ll show you straight up to my room.”

“All right,” said Frank, and was gone.

(III)

Mr. Parham-Carter’s room in the clergy-house was of the regular type—­very comfortable and pleasing to the eye, as it ought to be for a young man working under such circumstances; not really luxurious; pious and virile.  The walls were a rosy distemper, very warm and sweet, and upon them, above the low oak book-cases, hung school and college groups, discreet sporting engravings, a glorious cathedral interior, and the Sistine Madonna over the mantelpiece.  An oar hung all along one ceiling, painted on the blade with the arms of an Oxford college.  There was a small prie-dieu, surmounted by a crucifix of Ober-Ammergau workmanship:  there was a mahogany writing-table with a revolving chair set before it; there were a couple of deep padded arm-chairs, a pipe-rack, and a row of photographs—­his mother in evening dress, a couple of sisters, with other well-bred-looking relations.  Altogether, with the curtains drawn and the fire blazing, it was exactly the kind of room that such a wholesome young man ought to have in the East of London.

Frank was standing on the hearth-rug as Mr. Parham-Carter came in a minute or two after ten o’clock, bearing a small tray with a covered jug, two cups and a plate of cake.

“Good-evening again,” said the clergyman.  “Have some cocoa?  I generally bring mine up here....  Sit down.  Make yourself comfortable.”

Frank said nothing.  He sat down.  He put his cap on the floor by his chair and leaned back.  The other, with rather nervous movements, set a steaming cup by his side, and a small silver box of cigarettes, matches and an ash-tray.  Then he sat down himself, took a long pull at his cocoa, and waited with a certain apprehensiveness.

“Who else is here?” asked Frank abruptly.

The other ran through the three names, with a short biography of each.  Frank nodded, reassured at the end.