“You gave him three days' leave yesterday, sir. He's gone down to that fishing-village where he went before.” “Confound the place! Send for him at once--telegraph. No--let us see--his leave is up to-morrow?” “The next day at ten he was to report.” “His father is ill,--an attack of gout,” muttered the Colonel, to give some color to his agitated manner. “But it is better, perhaps, not to alarm him. The seizure seems passing off.” “He said something about asking for a longer term; he wants a fortnight, I think. The season is just beginning now.” “He shall not have it, sir. Take good care to warn him not to apply. It will breed discontent in the regiment to see a young fellow who has not been a year with us obtain a leave every ten or fifteen days.” “If it were any other than Trafford, there would be plenty of grumbling. But he is such a favorite!” “I don't know that a worse accident could befall any man. Many a fine fellow has been taught selfishness by the over-estimate others have formed of him. See that you keep him to his duty, and that he is to look for no favoritism.” The Colonel did not well know why he said this, nor did he stop to think what might come of it. It smacked, to his mind, however, of something prompt, active, and energetic. His next move was to write a short note to Lady Trafford, acknowledging hers, and saying that, Lionel being absent,--he did not add where,--nothing could be done till he should see him. “To-morrow--next day at farthest--I will report progress. I cannot believe the case to be so serious as you suppose; at all events, count upon me.” “Stay!” cried he to the adjutant, who stood in the window awaiting further instructions; “on second thoughts, do telegraph. Say, 'Return at once.' This will prepare him for something.” CHAPTER IX. A BREAKFAST AT THE VICARAGE On the day after the picnic Sir Brook went by invitation to breakfast with the vicar. “When a man asks you to dinner,” said Fossbrooke, “he generally wants you to talk; when he asks you to breakfast, he wants to talk to you.” Whatever be the truth of this adage generally, it certainly-had its application in the present case. The vicar wanted very much to talk to Sir Brook. As they sat, therefore, over their coffee and devilled kidneys, chatting over the late excursion and hinting at another, the vicar suddenly said: “By the way, I want you to tell me something of the young fellow who was one of us yesterday. Tobin, our doctor here, who is a perfect commission-agent for scandal, says he is the greatest scamp going; that about eight or ten months ago the 'Times' was full of his exploits in bankruptcy; that his liabilities were tens of thousands,--assets _nil_. In a word, that, notwithstanding his frank, honest look, and his unaffected manner, he is the most accomplished scapegrace of the age.” “And how much of this do you believe?” asked Sir Brook, as he helped himself to coffee.