At this moment, candle in hand, and in a white flannel nightgown looking larger than ever, Father Rowley appeared in the gallery above and leaning over demanded who was there.
"Is that Father Rowley?" Mr. Mousley inquired with intense courtesy. "Or do my eyes deceive me? You'll excuse me from replying to your apparently simple question, Father Rowley, but I have met such a number of people to-night including the son of a man who used to know my father that I really don't know who is there, although I'm inclined to think that I am here. But I've had a series of such a remarkable series of adventures to-night that I should like your advice about them. I've been spending a very intellectual evening, Father Rowley."
"Go to bed," said the mission priest severely. "I'll speak to you in the morning."
"Father Rowley isn't annoyed with me, is he?" Mr. Mousley asked.
"I think he's rather annoyed at your being so late," said Mark.
"Late for what?"
"Is that you, Mark, down there?" asked the Missioner.
"I'm lighting Mr. Mousley across the gymnasium," Mark explained. "I think I'd better take him up to his room."
"If your young friend is as clever at managing rooms as he is at managing houses we shall get on splendidly, Father Rowley. I have perfect confidence in his manner with rooms. He soothed this house in the most remarkable way. It was jumping about like a pea in a pod till he caught hold of the reins."
"Mark, go to bed. I will see Mr. Mousley to his room."