you a moment, please."

"Yes, presently; but come in now, Edward, we are waiting to begin
supper. Now, what an odd coincidence to come across you in this way!"

"I want to speak to you, father," again said Hawkesbury.

The father looked vexed as he turned towards his son.

Smith rose at the same moment and said, holding out his hand to Mr
Hawkesbury, "I think, if you will excuse us, we had better go, sir."

"What, before supper! why, how is this?"

"I think your son would rather not have us here," said Jack, solemnly.

The father looked in amazement, first at us, then at his son, who once
more asked to speak to his father.

The good man, in evident bewilderment, begged us to excuse him for a
moment. But Jack, taking my arm once more, said, before our host could
leave the room, "Good-night, sir. Thank you very much for your
kindness."

And before I well knew where I was, we were standing out in the street.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

HOW I MADE A STILL MORE IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.

A few evenings after the awkward discovery recorded in the last chapter
Mr Hawkesbury himself called at our lodgings. He looked troubled and
constrained, but as kind as usual.

He came to tell us how sorry he was to have been deprived of our company
that evening, and to offer a sort of apology for his son's conduct.

"I fear from what he tells me that you do not all get on very happily
together at the office. I am so sorry, for I would have liked you all
to be friends."

It was hardly possible to tell the father frankly what we thought of his
son, so I replied, vaguely, "No, we don't get on very well, I'm sorry to
say."

"The fact is," said Jack, "we never have been friends."

"He told me so, greatly to my sorrow."

"I suppose he also told you why?" asked Jack, glancing sharply at the
clergyman.

The latter looked disturbed and a trifle confused as he replied, "Yes,
he did tell me something which--"

"He told you I was a convict's son," said Jack, quietly.

"What!" exclaimed the clergyman, with an involuntary start--"what! No,
he didn't tell me that, my poor boy: he never told me that!"

"I am," quietly said Jack.

I was amazed at the composure with which he said it, and looked the
visitor in the face as he did so.

The face was full of pity and sympathy. Not a shade of horror crossed
it, and for all he was Hawkesbury's father, I liked him more than ever.

"Do you mind telling me what he did say about me?" aske