Jack had been thinking of a hundred things, which all centered round one—­Frank.  He had had a real shock this morning.  It had been intolerable to think of Frank in prison, for even Jack could guess something of what that meant to him; and the tone of the letter had been so utterly unlike what he had been accustomed to from his friend.  He would have expected a bubbling torrent of remarks—­wise and foolish—­full of personal descriptions and unkind little sketches.  And, indeed, there had come this sober narration of facts and requests....

But in all this there was one deep relief—­that it should be a girl like Jenny who was the heart of the situation.  If she had been in the least little bit disturbed, who could tell what it would mean to Frank?  For Frank, as he knew perfectly well, had a very deep heart indeed, and had enshrined Jenny in the middle of it.  Any wavering or hesitation on her part would have meant misery to his friend.  But now all was perfectly right, he reflected; and really, after all, it did not matter very much what Lord Talgarth said or did.  Frank was a free agent; he was very capable and very lovable; it couldn’t possibly be long before something turned up, and then, with Jenny’s own money the two could manage very well.  And Lord Talgarth could not live for ever; and Archie would do the right thing, even if his father didn’t.

* * * * *

It was after half-past four before he looked up at a glint of white and saw Jenny standing at the drawing-room window.  She stood there an instant with a letter in her hand; then she stepped over the low sill and came towards him across the grass, serene and dignified and graceful.  Her head was bare again, and the great coils of her hair flashed suddenly as they caught a long horizontal ray from the west.

“Here it is,” she said.  “Will you direct it?  I’ve told him everything.”

Jack nodded.

“That’s excellent!” he said.  “It shall go to-night.”

He glanced up at her and saw her looking at him with just the faintest wistfulness.  He understood perfectly, he said to himself:  she was still a little unhappy at not being allowed to send the letter herself.  What a good girl she was!

“Have some tea before you go?” she said.

“Thanks.  I’d better not.  They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”

As he shook hands he tried to put something of his sympathy into his look.  He knew exactly how she was feeling, and he thought her splendidly brave.  But she hardly met his eyes, and again he felt he knew why.

As he opened the garden gate beyond the house he turned once more to wave.  But she was busy with the tea-things, and a black figure was advancing briskly upon her from the direction of the study end of the house.

CHAPTER VII

(I)