"Which was entirely natural," said Mr. Pyecroft, with an air of pious remorse. "Matilda has been ashamed to speak of me. To be utterly frank--and it is meet that one who has been what I have been should be humble and ready to confess--for many years I was the black sheep of the family, my name unmentioned. But sometime since I was snatched a brand from the burning; I have remained silent about myself until I could give to my family, which had properly disowned me, a long record to prove my reformation. I am now striving by my devotion to make some amends for my previous shortcomings." Jack stared incomprehensibly at this unexpected clerical brother of Matilda's, with his unquenchable volubility. Mr. Pyecroft gazed back with appropriate humility, yet with a lofty self-respect. Jack turned away with a shrug, and pointed at the dark figure of Mrs. De Peyster. "And who is that, Matilda?" "That, sir," put in Mr. Pyecroft quickly, easily, to forestall any blunder by the hapless Matilda--and deftly interposing himself between Jack and Mrs. De Peyster, "that is our sister." "The one who lives in Syracuse?" "Yes; and she is indisposed," said Mr. Pyecroft. "Our sister Angelica Simpson Jones," he elaborated. "Matilda is the eldest, I am the youngest; there are just us three children." "And might I ask, Matilda, without intending discourtesy," said Jack, eyeing Mr. Pyecroft with disfavor, "how long your brother and sister intend to remain?" "Matilda invited us for the summer," said Mr. Pyecroft apologetically. "For the summer!" repeated Jack in dismay. Then he spoke to Matilda, caustically: "I suppose it's all right, Matilda, but has it been your fixed custom, when we've been away for the summer, to fill the house with your family?" "Please, Mr. Jack, please," imploringly began Matilda, and could utter nothing further. "Great God!" Jack burst out in exasperation. "Not that I'd object ordinarily to your relatives being here, Matilda. But running this place just now as a hotel, who knows but it may let out the fact that we're here!" Mr. Pyecroft's eyebrows went up--ever so little. "Ah, I understand. You wish your presence in the house to be a secret." "Of course! Hasn't Matilda told you?" "I only just arrived. She hasn't had time. But of course she would have done so. You are--ah"--his tone was delicate--"evading the police?" "The police! We don't care a hang about the police, though, of course, we don't want them to know. It's the infernal reporters we care about." "The reporters?" softly pursued Mr. Pyecroft. "Yes, but one reporter in particular--a beast by the name of Mayfair, I've had a tip that he suspects something; already he's tried to get into the house as a gas-meter inspector." At the mention of that indomitable, remorseless, undeceivable newsgatherer, Mayfair, and the possibility of his gaining entrance into the house, Mrs. De Peyster experienced a new shudder.