The picture that I have in my mind of Frank at this present time may possibly be a little incorrect in one or two details, but I am quite clear about its main outlines, and it is extremely vivid on the whole.  I see him going in, quietly and unostentatiously—­quite at his ease, yet a very unusual figure in such surroundings.  I hear an old gentleman sniff and move his chair a little as this person in an exceedingly shabby blue suit with the collar turned up, with a muffler round his neck and large, bulging boots on his feet, comes and sits beside him.  I perceive an earnest young lady, probably a typist in search of extra culture, look at him long and vacantly from over her copy of Emerson, and can almost see her mind gradually collecting conclusions about him.  The attendant, too, as he asks for his paper, eyes him shrewdly and suspiciously, and waits till the three halfpence are actually handed across under the brass wire partition before giving him the penny stamp.  These circumstances may be incorrect, but I am absolutely clear as to Frank’s own attitude of mind.  Honestly, he no longer minds in the very least how people behave to him; he has got through all that kind of thing long ago; he is not at all to be commiserated; it appears to him only of importance to get the paper and to be able to write and post his letter without interruption.  For Frank has got on to that plane—­(I know no other word to use, though I dislike this one)—­when these other things simply do not matter.  We all touch that plane sometimes, generally under circumstances of a strong mental excitement, whether of pleasure or pain, or even annoyance.  A man with violent toothache, or who has just become engaged to be married, really does not care what people think of him.  But Frank, for the present at least, has got here altogether, though for quite different reasons.  The letter he wrote on this occasion is, at present, in my possession.  It runs as follows.  It is very short and business-like: 

     “DEAR JACK,

“I want to tell you where I am—­or, rather, where I can be got at in case of need.  I am down in East London for the present, and one of the curates here knows where I’m living. (He was at Eton with me.) His address is:  The Rev. E. Parham-Carter, The Eton Mission, Hackney Wick, London, N.E.

“The reason I’m writing is this:  You remember Major Trustcott and Gertie, don’t you?  Well, I haven’t succeeded in getting Gertie back to her people yet, and the worst of it is that the Major knows that there’s something up, and, of course, puts the worst possible construction upon it.  Parham-Carter knows all about it, too—­I’ve just left a note on him, with instructions.  Now I don’t quite know what’ll happen, but in case anything does happen which prevents my going on at Gertie, I want you to come and do what you can.  Parham-Carter will write to you if necessary.

“That’s one thing; and