While Jarman lighted his pipe, Frank told how he had been sent home from San Francisco by his father when he was two years of age, and placed under the care of a Quaker aunt called Miss Dorothy Drake. "She lived in Devonshire, at a place called Kingsbridge," went on Lancaster, "and there I was brought up till it was time for me to go to college. I studied at the Elizabethan Grammar School in that town. My father was always coming home, but never appeared. Then, when I was ten, he stopped writing altogether. But my aunt had the money for my education sent to her regularly. I went to Oxford, as you know, and then came, five years ago, to make my mark in London. And a pretty mark I have made!" said Frank, bitterly. "You never spoke of this past to anyone?" "No. My aunt particularly told me not to do so. I can't see, myself, why I should have kept silence though," he added, frowning. "There's nothing wrong about my past that I can see." "No. It would seem as though your father was anxious you should live as quietly as possible, so as not to attract the attentions of adventurers of the Berry type." "I don't understand." "Well, that tattooing on your right arm! You never knew what it meant?" "No. I asked my aunt and she could not tell me. It was on my arm--the Scarlet Bat I mean--when I came from America. Denham, I understand, says that his tattooing was done by Indians." "H'm! He might believe that," said Jarman, sceptically, "and I daresay he's as ignorant of what the symbol means as you are. But Berry knows." "What makes you think that?" "Because he is hounding you down, and you are marked in a similar way to that boy whom he has in his clutches." "Do you think Denham is in his clutches?" "I am sure of it. The boy believes in him thoroughly, and is quite under Berry's thumb--poor wretch. He knows nothing about the significance of the Scarlet Bat, or Berry would not trust his babbling tongue within reach of my ears. But you told me that there was a chance of your learning something about yourself?" "Yes. Aunt Dorothy said that when I was twenty-five, she had been told by my father to give me a sealed envelope. What it contained she did not know. In fact, Jarman, my aunt knew nothing, save that my father was a great traveller, that he married in America, and that when my mother died he sent me home. She thinks he is dead, because she has not received a letter from him for so long. I don't agree with her, as all this time the money has been forwarded for my education and keep." "Are you still receiving money?" "Yes. Twenty pounds a month. But I don't touch it. Aunt Dorothy is poor, so I give it to her and work for my own bread and butter." "H'm! You're a good fellow. Who pays you the money?" "White & Saon, lawyers in the City." "Can't they tell you anything?" "Maybe they might be able to do so, but they refuse. All they say is that the money comes from their San Francisco agents, and that they are empowered to pay it to me."