Barry shook his head with a knowing look. "Daren't sir. Mr. Heron is a gentleman that will have his own way. And he said you had a big estate in Scotland, sir; and lots of money."
"What other tales did he tell you?" said Brian, throwing back his head restlessly.
"Well, I don't know, sir. Only he told us that we'd better nurse you up as well as we could before we left the island, and that there was one at home as would give money to see you alive and well. A lady, I think he meant."
"What insane folly!" muttered Brian to himself. "Look here, Barry," he added aloud, "Mr. Heron was making jokes at your expense and mine. He meant nothing of the kind; I haven't a penny in the world, and I'm on the way to the Brazils to earn my living as a working-man. Now do you understand?"
Barry retired, silenced but unconvinced. And the next time that Brian saw Percival alone, he said to him drily:—
"I would rather make my own romances about my future life, if it's all the same to you."
"Eh? What? What do you mean?"
"Don't tell these poor fellows that I have property in Scotland, please. It is not the case."
"Oh, that's what you're making a fuss about. But I can't help it," said Percival, shrugging his shoulders. "If you are Brian Luttrell, as Vasari swears you are—swearing it to his own detriment, too, which inclines me to believe that it is true—the Strathleckie estate is yours."
"You can't prove that I am Brian Luttrell."