“Good-morning, sir,” Hamilton said.
“Good-morning,” was the gruff rejoinder. “You have a gentleman staying here, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. Sir Harold Annesley is here. Do you wish to see him?”
“One moment, my friend. A detective has traced him. I trust that you have not detained him against his will?”
“On the other hand, sir, I cannot persuade him to leave,” replied Hamilton, with dignity.
“I have heard that he met with an accident that paralyzed his memory. No matter how I obtained the information—there is the substance of it. Now answer me truthfully, Mr.—Mr.——”
“Hamilton,” was the calm reply, although the old musician strongly resented the brusque, condemnatory manner of his interlocutor. “Your information is perfectly correct. May I ask, sir, who and what you are?”
The colonel bent upon him a ferocious glance.
“I? My name is Greyson—Colonel Greyson. I have known Sir Harold since he was a mere boy of twenty. I succeeded to the co-trusteeship of his business and social welfare when his natural guardian died. I have traced him here, and will be responsible for him, while I may have to hold you responsible for his detention!”
“I am prepared to meet any reasonable question you may think fit to put to me,” was the haughty reply; “but I object to this bluster.”