"I took care of myself quite nicely, thank you. I've had tea and bread and butter, and I lighted a fire."
Rosalind's glance scanned the group and rested upon the stout young man. He stood limp and unresisting in the grasp of Mr. Davidson's butler. In the surprise of the meeting he had been forgotten. He seemed quite contented to have it so.
"Well, thank the Lord, you're safe!" said Mr. Davidson heartily. "Glad you made yourself at home; the house is yours. I got your telegram, you see."
He turned to glare at the prisoner, who was bestowing upon Rosalind a look of gloomy reproach. She eyed the young man coldly.
"I thought it was best to send for you," she said.
"Best! I should say it was! You—you impostor!"
The master of the house shook his fist under the nose of the prisoner, who retreated a pace.
"Of course he isn't your nephew?"
"That! My nephew? I should say not!"
The stout young man shifted his feet.