‘Sebastian Bach Dixon,’ read Philip. ‘Ha! it was he who took me for you yesterday.’
‘I saw him at the concert—I was sure it could be no other. I came in on purpose to find him, and here he is waiting for me. Is not it a happy chance?’
‘Happy!’ echoed Philip, in a far different tone.
‘How I have longed for this—for any one who could remember and tell me of her—of my mother—my poor, dear young mother! And her own brother! I have been thinking of it all night, and he knows I am here, and is as eager as myself. He is waiting for me,’ ended Guy, hurrying off.
‘Stop!’ said Philip, gravely. ‘Think before acting. I seriously advise you to have nothing to do with this man, at least personally. Let me see him, and learn what he wants.’
‘He wants me,’ impatiently answered Guy. ‘You are not his nephew.’
‘Thank heaven!’ thought Philip. ‘Do you imagine your relationship is the sole cause of his seeking you?’
‘I don’t know—I don’t care!’ cried Guy, with vehemence. ‘I will not listen to suspicions of my mother’s brother.’
‘It is more than suspicion. Hear me calmly. I speak for your good. I know this man’s influence was fatal to your father. I know he did all in his power to widen the breach with your grandfather.’
‘That was eighteen years ago,’ said Guy, walking on, biting his lip in a fiery fit of impatience.