“That you were much to blame,” said Frank eagerly.
“Not he. He’ll trust you, as I do. He likes you, Frank. He told me he liked you all the better for being so true to your principles, and that he was very glad to find that I had made friends with you. There, now you can tell me as much as you like. Nothing at all, if you think proper; but I shall trust you as much as you’ll let me, my lad. There, it’s time to go in. I want to hear more about what they’re doing. As they know that your father has been seen, they’ll be more strict than ever. But let’s go round by your old house.”
“No, no,” said Frank, with a shudder.
“Better go.—Come, don’t shiver like that. You were a man last night; be one now.”
“Come along then,” said Frank firmly; and they walked sharply round by the end of the canal, and back along the opposite side toward Westminster, passing several people on the way, early as the hour was.
“Don’t seem to notice any one,” said Andrew; “and walk carelessly and openly, just as if you were going—as we are—to look at your old house where the adventure was.”
“Why?”
“Because several of the people we pass will be spies. I don’t want to put you all in a fidget; but neither you nor your mother will be able to stir now without being watched.”
“Do you think so?” said Frank, who felt startled.
“Sure of it. There, that’s doing just what I told you not to do, opening your mouth like a bumpkin for the flies to jump down your throat, and making your eyes look dark all round like two burnt holes in a blanket. Come along. You mustn’t mind anything now. I don’t: I’m used to it. Let ’em see that you don’t care a rush, and that they may watch you as much as they please. Now don’t say anything to me, only walk by me, and we’ll go by the Park front of your place. I want to have a quiet stare at the tops of the houses and at the corner where your father slipped down the rope.”