"I thought it must be the same!—I was certain there couldn’t be two Flying Sherbrands. Pat!—Mr. Sherbrand can’t deny the relationship, though he disapproves of Franky and me most fearfully. You’ll have to teach him," went on the coaxing little voice, "that we’re lots and lots nicer than he thinks us! For we’ve got to be friends," said Kittums, "if you and my dear Pat are going to be married! No time like the present! Can’t we begin now?" What a vivid little face it was, though there were tired marks like faint bruises under the great dark eyes, and the rose-flush in the cheeks was less bright than it had seemed in June. He released the tiny jewelled fingers, and found himself presented to the husband. "Frightfully glad to meet you—more reasons than one!" Franky, slim, sleek-headed, and dapper in unblemished Regulation tea-leaf, held out his hand, saying as he looked the other squarely in the eyes: "If I had known your Home address, I should like to have dropped a line to you, when I—when I saw the newspaper yesterday." "My mother lives at Bournemouth. My father had been an invalid for years. I go down to-day by the afternoon train." "Ah! Please remember me to my—Aunt Jeannette." From what dusty shelf of memories had Franky reached down the name of his uncle’s unknown wife? But it sounded pleasantly to Mrs. Sherbrand’s son. The cloud upon his forehead cleared away, and his cold sea-blue eyes began to thaw into kindness: "I’d like a word with you in private. Do you mind comin’ out of this clackshop into the vest*i*bulee?" Franky went on, quoting his favourite Jimmy Greggson, and with a word to Margot and a glance on Sherbrand’s part at Patrine, the two men passed through the swing-doors. Here Franky wheeled, and said with effort: "This is a bit subsequent! but—if there’s time available and the date of my uncle’s funeral doesn’t happen to be fixed, I should like to say—" He grew furiously red and began to stammer: "My father ... myself ... Dash! how brutally I bungle! But my uncle has a right to—to lie in the family vault with his ancestors. It’s at Whins—the Church is in the Castle grounds. I can guarantee that my father—every facility—sympathy—proper respect—" He broke down. Sherbrand answered, now the cooler of the two: "You are very kind, Lord Norwater. My mother has already received a telegram from Lord Mitchelborough conveying a message to the same effect." "I engineered that!" thought Franky complacently. But he was fish-dumb. Sherbrand went on: "She would thank you, as I do, gratefully. But my father—would have preferred to be buried where he died!"