"I am going, Lord Saltire, to trouble you with some of my early reminiscences as a boy."
Lord Saltire bowed, and settled himself easily in his chair, as one does who expects a good story. Mackworth went on—
"One of my earliest recollections, my lord, is of being at a French lycée."
"The fault of those establishments," said Lord Saltire, pensively, "is the great range of subjects which are superficially taught. I ask pardon for interrupting you. Do you take snuff?"
Mackworth declined, with great politeness, and continued—
"I was taken to that school by a footman in livery."
"Upon my honour, then, I owe you an apology. I thought, of course, that the butler had gone with you. But, in a large house, one never really knows what one's people are about."
Father Mackworth did not exactly like this. It was perfectly evident to him, not only that Lord Saltire knew all about his birth and parentage, but also was willing to tell.
"Lord Saltire," he said, "I have never had a parent's care, or any name but one I believe to be fictitious. You can give me a name—give me, perhaps, a parent—possibly, a brother. Will you do this for me?"
"I can do neither the one thing nor the other, my good sir. I entreat you, for your own sake, to inquire no further."