“No,” went on the unaccountable visitor. “I supposed that you would give me what the world calls good advice. But I don’t want that. I want to hear something better.”
He laughed aloud in such a joyous, cheery fashion that the old lawyer even smiled.
“You don’t think I am a good man to come to for bad advice?” he said.
“The last in the world. I don’t suppose that you ever did a foolish thing in your life.”
“And therefore am perhaps less competent to advise others who have,” replied Maskelyne, half heedlessly, for his thoughts were slowly turning in a new direction. The more he looked the more the eager, spirited face seemed familiar. He had certainly seen the young fellow before, but where? It seemed to him that he could certainly remember in a moment, if he only had time to think.
“Mr. Bevington——”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Maskelyne, in a significant tone, “you said Mr. Bevington?”
“Certainly,” said the stranger, suddenly looking up in evident surprise. “Didn’t he write?”
“I have received a letter,” said the old lawyer, cautiously.
He was on the point of making some further inquiries, but the impulse came to nothing. The former feeling of acquiescent but expectant apathy again possessed him; indeed, he had never been much in the habit of asking questions. He knew that he often learned more than was suspected even, by letting people talk on in their own way.