“That’s all right,” said Frank, and moved on.

* * * * *

“I say,” said Jack, as they came up to the hall door.  “Will you talk now or will you change, or what?”

“I should like a hot bath first.  By the way, have you anyone staying in the house?”

“Not a soul; and only two sisters at home.  And my mother, of course.”

“What about clothes?”

“I’ll see about that.  Come on round to the smoking-room window.  Then I’ll get in Jackson and explain to him.  I suppose you don’t mind your name being known?  He’ll probably recognize you, anyhow.”

“Not in the least, so long as no one interferes.”

Jack rang the bell as soon as they came into the smoking-room, and Frank sat down in a deep chair.  Then the butler came.  He cast one long look at the astonishing figure in the chair.

“Oh!—­er—­Jackson, this is Mr. Frank Guiseley.  He’s going to stay here.  He’ll want some clothes and things.  I rather think there are some suits of mine that might do.  I wish you’d look them out.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?

“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