‘The fact is, my dear fellow,’ interrupted William Henry earnestly, ‘there _is_ a reason.’ ‘I have reached that point already without a guide,’ observed the other drily. ‘The truth is—— ‘ pursued William Henry. Mr. Reginald Talbot took the pipe from his mouth and laughed aloud. Certainly no diplomatic explanation could have been conducted under greater difficulties. ‘Some people yearn for fame, my dear Erin,’ he said; ‘to others it is very undesirable to be well known, even by a single individual.’ ‘If you imagine I wish to deceive you, Talbot, you are quite wrong,’ said William Henry firmly, ‘but it is true that I cannot be so frank with you as I could wish. I have a secret which is not my own, or you may be sure that you should share it. Listen.’ Then he told him the whole story of his acquaintance with the Templar and its singular result. Talbot listened to him with great attention. ‘It is very curious,’ he remarked when the narrative was finished, ‘and certainly a great stroke of luck. But it is like a tale from the “Arabian Nights.” Nay, I don’t mean on the score of veracity,’ for William Henry had flushed crimson, ‘but from its parenthetic nature. It is a story within a story; for if you can stretch your memory so far, you began with the intention of telling me why you never came to see your old friend at the “Blue Boar?”’ ‘It was because I had no time, Talbot. I have to do my work at the office, and also to attend upon my new acquaintance at the Temple.’ ‘You must be occupied indeed; not a moment in which to say, “How-d’ye-do? Good-morrow!”’ ‘There were also my father’s injunctions. I thought such a fleeting visit as you speak of would be worse than nothing, and would cause you more annoyance than being neglected; but now my father and you are friends I will certainly find time to renew the ancient days.’ ‘Come, that is better. Now shall I fill up what is wanting in your explanation and make all clear?’ ‘If you please,’ said William Henry indifferently, ‘though I am not aware that there is anything more.’ ‘Yes, there is your cousin Margaret,’ said Talbot, with a cunning air; ‘you would have braved the anger of the rhinoceros and followed your own inclinations—which I flatter myself would have led you to come and see me—had his favour been no more important to you than of yore. But he holds in his hand another hand, of which he has the disposal, and therefore it behoves you to be on your best behaviour.’ ‘You have guessed it,’ exclaimed William Henry with admiration. ‘If I thought you could have sympathised with me, as I see you do, I should have saved you the trouble of guessing.’