“My father’s empty house,” said the boy.
“No, your mother’s. Your father is an exile, an outcast, without any rights in England. I am dead in the eyes of the law, Frank, and when you come of age you can reign in my stead. Why, boy, if you liked to make a stand for it, they would, I dare say, tell you that you are now Sir Frank Gowan.”
He looked so merrily in his son’s face, that the boy joined in his mirth.
“You must go now, my boy. I have work that will take me all night. But if you do come here in the hope of seeing me—”
“I shall not come,” said the boy firmly.
“Why?”
“Because, to please myself, I will not do anything to make your position dangerous.”
“Well said, Frank; but come now and then for my pleasure, and if I am not here, do this.”
He rose and walked to a portrait framed in the wainscotting over a side table, pointed to one little oval nut in the carving, twisted it slightly, and the picture swung forward, showing a shallow closet behind fitted with shelves, and in which were swords and pistols, with flasks of powder and pouches of ball.
“You can look in there; and if I have been, you will find a letter, written for you and your mother, by a Mr Cross to apparently nobody. I am Mr Cross, Frank. There. Try if you can open it.”