For nearly an hour did Jack sit entranced, and when the orchestra crashed out the last floods of melody in the _finale_, and when most of the audience rose to go, he trotted out with Acton in a dream. "We'll have a little supper at Frascati's, young 'un, and then home." Frascati's completed the enchantment of Bourne. The beauty of the supper-room, the glitter of snowy linen, of mirrors, and the inviting crash of knives, and the clink of glasses, the busy orderliness of the waiters, the laughter, chatter of the visitors, the scents, the sights and sounds, fascinated him. Acton ordered a modest little supper, and when Jack had finally pushed away his plate Acton paid the bill, and went out to find the driver. He was there, the horse almost waltzing with impatience to be off. The two swung themselves up, and in another minute they were whirling along back to St. Amory's. The St. Amory's clock could be heard striking the half hour after one when Jack and Acton parted at the corner of Corker's garden. "Jack," said Acton, "good night! and you need not trouble about the £7. You've done more for me than that, and I shall not forget it." Jack, almost weeping with gratitude, said, "Good night, Acton!" in a fervent whisper, and scuttled over Corker's flower-beds. He pushed up his window and crawled through, and, seeing that all was as he had left it after supper, he undressed and jumped into bed, and in a few minutes slept the sleep of the just. Acton had managed his re-entrance just as successfully--did he ever fail?--and the thought of Bourne's hopeless rage, when he should find out about Jack's escapade, made him sleep the sleep of the happy man. He was made that way. [Illustration: HE PUSHED UP HIS WINDOW AND CRAWLED THROUGH.] CHAPTER XXII THE PENFOLD TABLET FUND