“Certainly, my dear boy. Why, working the hours and hours of overtime that you do, of course you can take a holiday whenever you're disposed.”
“He will not be back till late,” Ruthven said as they went out. “I shall keep him all the evening.”
“Oh, indeed, Ruthven, I have no clothes!”
“Clothes be bothered,” Ruthven said. “I certainly shall end by punching your head, Frank, before the day's out.”
Frank remonstrated no more, but committed himself entirely to his friend's guidance. At the Mansion House they mounted on the roof of an omnibus going west, and at Knightsbridge got off and walked to Eaton Square, where Ruthven's father resided. The latter was out, so Frank accompanied his friend to what he called his sanctum, a small room littered up with books, bats, insect boxes, and a great variety of rubbish of all kinds. Here they chatted until the servant came up and said that Sir James had returned.
“Come on, Frank,” Ruthven said, running downstairs. “There's nothing of the ogre about the governor.”
They entered the study, and Ruthven introduced his friend.
“I've caught him, father, at last. This is the culprit.”
Sir James Ruthven was a pleasant looking man, with a kindly face.
“Well, you troublesome boy,” he said, holding out his hand, “where have you been hiding all this time?”