CHAPTER XII.
A PAIR OF GLOVES "Piers! Where the devil are you, Piers ?" There was loud exasperation in the query as Sir Beverley halted in the doorway of his grandson's bedroom.
There was a moment's pause; then Victor the valet came quickly forward.
"But, _Monsieur Pierre_, he bathe himself," he explained, with beady eyes running over the gaunt old figure in the entrance.
Sir Beverley growled at him inarticulately and turned away.
A moment later he was beating a rousing tattoo on the bathroom-door.
"Piers! Let me in! Do you hear?
Let me in!" The vigorous splashing within came to a sudden stop.

"That you, sir ?" called Piers.
"Of course it's me!" shouted back Sir Beverley, shaking the door with fierce impatience.

"Damn it, let me in! I'll force the door if you don't." "No, don't, sir; don't! I'm coming!" There came the sound of a splashing leap, and bare feet raced across the bathroom floor.

The door was wrenched from Sir Beverley's grasp, and flung open.

Piers, quite naked, stood back and bowed him in with elaborate ceremony.
Sir Beverley entered and glared at him.
Piers shut the door and took a flying jump back into the bath.