apology, and--perhaps something
else."

"Thankye, S'Richard, thankye," said the man. "I know'd you'd say
something o' that sort, but don't you speak to him. It wouldn't do no
good. He wouldn't 'pologise to such as me; and as to a tip--not him!
There, S'Richard, it's all right now. It did me good to say all that
out to a real gentleman, and--pst!--Any more orders, S'Richard?"

"Eh?" said Richard, wondering at the man's manner. "No, thank you;
that's all. What's the matter?"

"Pst! S'Richard," whispered the man hurriedly. "Talk of the
No-we-never-mentions-him, and you see his--"

The door opened with a crash, and made the pictures swing upon the wall,
while Jerry drew on one side to let the fresh-comer enter the room.

CHAPTER FOUR.

MARK IN A HOLE.

"Hullo, thick-head! loafing again."

It was a dark, olive-complexioned young fellow, of Sir Richard's age,
who swung into the opening noisily, cigarette in mouth.

"Not loafing, Mr Frayne, sir," said the man in an injured tone, as he
fixed his eyes on the rather handsome student who had entered the room,
and took in at a glance his white flannels and yellow-striped blazer,
from the breast-pocket of which a thick gold chain was hanging. "Beg
pardon, sir; you'll be losing your watch-chain's out o' buttonhole."

"Well, what business is it of yours, idiot? If I lose it, you might
find it. Perquisites--eh, Jerry?"

"There, S'Richard," said the man, flushing. "Now, ain't that as good as
sayin' I'd steal a watch? I'd take my oath I never--"

"That will do, Jerry," said Sir Richard, sternly. "You needn't wait.--
Why can't you leave the fellow alone, Mark?"

"Why can't you act like a gentleman, and not be always making friends
with the servants?" retorted the young fellow addressed. "So that's it,
is it? The confounded sneak comes tattling to you, does he?"

"No!" cried Sir Richard, rather gruffly; "but he did complain of your
forgetting yourself and throwing things at him."

"Oh, did he?" cried Mark Frayne, catching up the nearest thing, which
was the model his cousin had been making, and hurling it at the
offender, but without effect, for Jeremiah Brigley already had the door
open and darted out; the panel receiving the model instead of his head.

Sir Richard Frayne sprang to his feet to save his model, but too late;
it fell, shivered, to the carpet, and the new-comer burst into a roar of
laughter.

"I don't see anything to grin at," said his