“Well, we are quite nonplussed,” said Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen says Joe must have had a rush of humour to the head. She wired for us to send Fred down to her. Of course she has sent wires to Fred before, as a joke; but she must have known we couldn't send him so far alone. I suppose Joe has told you all about Fred? He's quite one of the family.” “Yes,” said the distracted Oxonian. “He must be a fine fellow. I'm very anxious to meet him.” There was a ring at the front door bell, and in a kind of stupor Blair realized that something--he hardly knew what--was about to happen. “The Reverend Mr. Carter,” announced the maid. Blair had a keen desire to scream, but he kept his eyes firmly on the rug until he had mastered himself. In the general movement that followed he had presence of mind enough to seize a chair next to Kathleen. He saw Falstaff's burly figure enter, habited as the conventional “black beetle” of the church, and in the sharpened state of his wits noticed that the unpractised curate had put on his clerical collar the wrong way round. He rejoiced in Carter's look of dismay on finding his fellow-Scorpion already on the battlefield. “Mr. Carter,” said Mr. Kent, “this is Mr. Blair, of Trinity.” The two shook hands gravely. Blair determined to make use of his hard-won information to set Carter astray. “I know Mr. Carter by reputation,” he said. “I have heard Joe speak of him in terms of great admiration.” The curate looked worried, but tried to play safe. “Oh, yes, Joe!” he said. “Splendid chap.” Blair made haste to get back to the chair he coveted. He had no idea what mad schemes might lurk beneath Carter's episcopalian frock, and was determined to gain any headway he could. “It seems funny your coming to Wolverhampton,” said Kathleen. “So few 'varsity men ever get here. But it's certainly a blessing for Dad. He'll talk antiquities with you as long as you like.” “Are you interested in the subject?” asked Blair. “I'm afraid not,” she laughed. “It's too bad Dad is so laid up with his lumbago. He'd love to walk you out to Tettenhall and Boscobel, to see his burial mounds.” “How very interesting!” said Blair. “A kind of private family cemetery?” “Oh, dear no,” declared Kathleen in amazement. “Antiquities, you know, where the Danes buried themselves.” “Of course, of course. How I wish I could see them! Are you fond of walking?” “Yes, when it isn't too muddy. It's been too wet lately to go out with Fred. He loves a good long walk, but he's getting old and his rheumatism bothers him.” “I dare say he may have inherited that from your father?” “It's very common among Scotties,” said Kathleen. “Oh, is your family Scotch?” said Blair, feverishly trying to be polite. “Our family?” queried Kathleen with a smile. “Heavens, no! I thought you were talking about Fred. You must see him, he's somewhere around.” “I should love to meet him,” said Blair.