FREDDY had been a resident in his uncle's house for nearly a month, when, on returning from school with Edwin and Claude one afternoon, they met an old gentleman in High Street, who stopped when he caught sight of the three boys, and addressed the eldest in a gruff though not unkindly voice.
"Tell your father I want to see him when he can spare me half an hour," he said. "I find he is not at home now. He need not call till to-morrow, if that will be more convenient for him than this evening, for I don't want him to visit me in his professional capacity—tell him so, and he'll understand. Mind you don't forget my message."
"I will be sure to remember it," Edwin replied as he lifted his cap courteously.
The old gentleman nodded; then, glancing at Freddy, he said:
"That boy is not your brother, is he?"
"No; he is our cousin, who is living with us at present," Edwin explained. "His name is Frederick Collins, and his real home is in Devonshire."
"Ah, yes!" — and without another word the old gentleman went on his way, leaning on a stout stick, for he walked somewhat feebly.
"What an odd old fellow!" cried Freddy, glancing after him with a smile. "Who is he?"
"Mr. Henley, the richest man in B—," Claude answered. "He's one of father's best patients, for he's nearly always more or less ill," he continued ingenuously. "He suffers a great deal from rheumatism, which makes him rather crotchety in his temper; but he's very kind-hearted, nevertheless, and gives away a lot of money to those he knows who really need it. Last Christmas he gave father several pounds to distribute amongst his poor patients. I wonder what he wants to see father for, now."
"He's a very sharp-looking old man," Freddy remarked, recalling the shrewd glance Mr. Henley had cast upon him. "To look at him, I'm sure no one would guess him to be rich, though. Where does he live?"