Frank—­searching in his locker for articles of clothing which he might require on the journey—­looked round.  He was startled, as Crayford had been startled, by the sudden change in Wardour since they had last seen him.

“Are you ill?” he asked.  “I hear you have been doing Bateson’s work for him.  Have you hurt yourself?”

Wardour suddenly moved his head, so as to hide his face from both Crayford and Frank.  He took out his handkerchief, and wound it clumsily round his left hand.

“Yes,” he said; “I hurt myself with the ax.  It’s nothing.  Never mind.  Pain always has a curious effect on me.  I tell you it’s nothing!  Don’t notice it!”

He turned his face toward them again as suddenly as he had turned it away.  He advanced a few steps, and addressed himself with an uneasy familiarity to Frank.

“I didn’t answer you civilly when you spoke to me some little time since.  I mean when I first came in here along with the rest of them.  I apologize.  Shake hands!  How are you?  Ready for the march?”

Frank met the oddly abrupt advance which had been made to him with perfect good humor.

“I am glad to be friends with you, Mr. Wardour.  I wish I was as well seasoned to fatigue as you are.”

Wardour burst into a hard, joyless, unnatural laugh.

“Not strong, eh?  You don’t look it.  The dice had better have sent me away, and kept you here.  I never felt in better condition in my life.”  He paused and added, with his eye on Frank and with a strong emphasis on the words:  “We men of Kent are made of tough material.”

Frank advanced a step on his side, with a new interest in Richard Wardour.

“You come from Kent?” he said.

“Yes.  From East Kent.”  He waited a little once more, and looked hard at Frank.  “Do you know that part of the country?” he asked.

“I ought to know something about East Kent,” Frank answered.  “Some dear friends of mine once lived there.”

“Friends of yours?” Wardour repeated.  “One of the county families, I suppose?”

As he put the question, he abruptly looked over his shoulder.  He was standing between Crayford and Frank.  Crayford, taking no part in the conversation, had been watching him, and listening to him more and more attentively as that conversation went on.  Within the last moment or two Wardour had become instinctively conscious of this.  He resented Crayford’s conduct with needless irritability.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

“Why are you looking unlike yourself?” Crayford answered, quietly.

Wardour made no reply.  He renewed the conversation with Frank.

“One of the county families?” he resumed.  “The Winterbys of Yew Grange, I dare say?”

“No,” said Frank; “but friends of the Witherbys, very likely.  The Burnhams.”

Desperately as he struggled to maintain it, Wardour’s self-control failed him.  He started violently.  The clumsily-wound handkerchief fell off his hand.  Still looking at him attentively, Crayford picked it up.