“I beg your Grace’s pardon.”
“Never mind, Frank. In the evening we shall be as usual. Give the necessary orders. Neither you nor the chef will, of course, be visible.”
“Very good, your Grace.” Frank placed the coffee and old brandy on the table, and withdrew.
The next morning the Duke repaired to Wardour Street and mentioned something about private theatricals. The suave and accomplished proprietor was fertile in suggestion.
“I mustn’t look too new or clean,” the Duke stipulated. The hint was sufficient; he was equipped with an entirely realistic costume.
“Duplicate it, please,” said the Duke as he re-entered his brougham. “It was careless of me to forget that it might rain.”
The Duke and Frank left King’s Cross the same evening (the chef had preceded them with the luggage; he made no stipulation about kitchen or scullery maids—everybody was always anxious to oblige his Grace) under cover of night. A journey of some forty miles brought them to their destination. On the outskirts of the little town lay the allotments. They were twelve in number, each comprising half-an-acre of land. Three cottages stood facing the allotments with their backs to the highroad. One of these now appertained to the Duke. The chef had done wonders; all was clean and comfortable—though the furniture was, of course, very plain. The dinner was excellent. A new spade, a new hoe, a new rake, and a new wheelbarrow stood just within the door.
“Get up early and rub them over with dirt, Frank,” said the Duke as he retired, well pleased, to rest.
The next morning also he breakfasted with excellent appetite.
“I beg your Grace’s pardon,” said Frank, “but your Grace will not forget to be out of work?”