“Yes, what did he say?”
“He told me it was his only comfort in his troubles to feel that his son was at his mother’s side.”
“Ah!” sighed Frank; and then he uttered a warning, “Hist! Some one coming;” and he gazed across the water and went on sketching, for he had suddenly become aware of some one coming from his left over the grass, and he trembled lest his words should have been heard, for every one now seemed likely to be a spy.
It was hard work to keep from looking up, and to appear engrossed with his task; but he mastered the desire, even when he was conscious of the fresh-comer being close at hand, his shadow cast over the paper, and he knew that he was passing between him and the clump of shrubs.
Then whoever it was paused, and Frank felt that he was looking down at the drawing, while the boy’s heart went on thumping heavily.
“He must have heard me speaking,” he thought; and then he gave a violent start and looked up, for a voice said:
“Well done, young gentleman. Quite an artist, I see.”
The speaker’s face was strange, and he had keen, searching eyes, which seemed as if they were reading the boy’s inmost thoughts as he faltered:
“Oh no, only a little bit of a sketch.”
Then he started again, for there was the sound of a blow delivered by a stick, a sharp cry, a scuffle, and Drew bounded out from the bushes, followed by Frank’s old enemy whom he had trapped at the house. But Drew would have escaped if it had not been for the stranger, who, acting in collusion with Bagot, caught the lad by the arm and held him.