“You drive a dangerous trade.”

“Ah, sir, young people will be gourmands,” she said, with a foreign accent.  “Ah, that poor young gentleman is very ill.  Will he not come in and lie down to recover?”

“No, thank you,” said Clement.  “A carriage is coming to take him home.”

Something about the fat in the fire was passing between the cadets, and the younger of them began to repeat that he had come for his brother’s birthday, and that he feared they had brought the youngsters into a scrape by carrying the joke too far.

“I have nothing to say to you, sir,” said the Vicar of St. Matthew’s, looking very majestic, “except that it is time you were returning to your ship.  As to you,” turning to Edward Harewood, “I can only say that if you are aware of the peculiar circumstances of Adrian Vanderkist, your conduct can only be called fiendish.”

Fergus and Adrian came running up with tidings that the cab was waiting.  Edward Harewood stood sullen, but the other lad said—-

“Unlucky.  We are sorry to have got the little fellows into trouble.”

He held out his hand, and Clement did not refuse it, as he did that of his own nephew.  Still, there was a certain satisfaction at his heart as he beheld the clear, honest young faces of the other two boys, and he bade Adrian run home and wait for him, saying to Fergus— -

“You seem to have been a good friend to my little nephew.  Thank you.”

Fergus coloured up, speechless between pleasure at the warm tone of commendation and the obligations of school-boy honour, nor, with young Campbell on their hands, was there space for questions.  That youth subsided into a heavy doze in the cab, and so continued till the arrival at No. 7, Devereux Buildings, where a capable-looking maid-servant opened the door, and he was deposited into her hands, the Vicar leaving his card with his present address, but feeling equal to nothing more, and hardly able to speak.

He drove home, finding his nephew in the doorway.  Signing to the maid to pay the driver, and to the boy to follow him, he reached his study, and sank into his easy-chair, Adrian opening frightened eyes and saying—-

“I’ll call Sibby.”

“No-—that bottle-—drop to there,” signing to the mark on the glass with his nail.

After a pause, while he held fast the boy, so to speak, with his eyes, he said—-

“Thank you, dear lad.”

“Uncle Clement,” said Adrian then, “we weren’t doing anything.  Merrifield thought his old bit of auralia, or whatever he calls it, was there.”

“I saw—-I saw, my boy.  To find you-—as you were, made me most thankful.  You must have resisted.  Tell me, were you of this party, or did you come on them by accident?”

“Horner asked me,” said Adrian, twisting from one leg to another.

Clement saw the crisis was come which he had long expected, and rejoiced at the form it had taken, though he knew he should suffer from pursuing the subject.