“Do as you like,” snapped Jack.

“Look here, old man, don’t be stuffy.  How would it do if I took a bag and changed up in that churchyard?  It’s locked up after dark, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got a key, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, that’s it.  And I’ll leave the bag and the key in the hedge somewhere.”

Jack was silent.

Jack held himself loyally in hand that evening, but he could not talk much.  He consented to explain to his mother that Frank had to be off after dinner that night, and he also visited the housekeeper’s room, and caused a small bundle, not much larger than a leg of mutton, including two small bottles which jingled together, to be wrapped up in brown paper—­in which he inserted also a five-pound note (he knew Frank would not take more)—­and the whole placed in the bag in which Frank’s old clothes were already concealed.  For the rest of the evening he sat, mostly silent, in one chair, trying not to watch Frank in another; pretending to read, but endeavoring to picture to his imagination what he himself would feel like if he were about to join the Major and Gertie in the churchyard at nine o’clock....  Frank sat quite quiet all the evening, reading old volumes of Punch.

They dined at half-past seven, by request—­Frank still in his homespun suit.  Fanny and Jill were rather difficult.  It seemed to them both a most romantic thing that this black-eyed, sunburned young man, with whom they had played garden-golf the day before, should really be continuing his amazing walking-tour, in company with two friends, at nine o’clock that very night.  They wondered innocently why the two friends had not been asked to join them at dinner.  It was exciting, too, and unusual, that this young man should dine in an old homespun suit.  They asked a quantity of questions.  Where was Mr. Guiseley going first?  Frank didn’t quite know; Where would he sleep that night?  Frank didn’t quite know; he would have to see.  When was the walking-tour going to end?  Frank didn’t quite know.  Did he really like it?  Oh, well, Frank thought it was a good thing to go on a walking tour, even if you were rather uncomfortable sometimes.

The leave-taking was unemotional.  Jack had announced suddenly and loudly in the smoking-room before dinner that he was going to see the last of Frank, as far as the churchyard; Frank had protested, but had yielded.  The rest had all said good-by to him in the hall, and at a quarter to nine the two young men went out into the darkness.

(VI)

It was a clear autumn night—­a “wonderful night of stars”—­and the skies blazed softly overhead down to the great blotted masses of the high moors that stood round Barham.  It was perfectly still, too—­the wind had dropped, and the only sound as the two walked down the park was the low talking of the stream over the stones beyond the belt of trees fifty yards away from the road.