Justin had no cards, but he took a scrap of paper from a writing-table near, and wrote his name, and handed it to the young man, saying:
“Will you take this to Mr. Steinfeldt?”
The youth started off on the errand, and presently returned, accompanied by a stout, respectable-looking, middle-aged man, whose rubicund countenance expressed much concern.
“You are a relative of the late Mr. Rosenthal, I presume?” said this gentleman.
“The late!” echoed Justin, starting back.
“Ah! I am very sorry, exceedingly sorry, to have spoken so thoughtlessly. But, bless my soul, I supposed—— And it has been so long—over a year!” stammered Mr. Steinfeldt, with a face full of sympathy.
“I have been absent from the country for more than two years. I have just returned from India,” said Justin, not wishing then and there to enter upon the particulars of his shipwreck.
“Bless my soul, yes! And yet knew nothing of what had happened here. Letters, perhaps, miscarried, or passed you. Dear me! yes, it must be a great shock. Come into my countingroom and recover yourself. Here, Perkins! wine—quick!” said Steinfeldt, leading the way to the back of the warerooms, followed by Justin, who accepted his invitation only that he might learn the particulars of his uncle’s death, and if possible, also, some news of his father and sister.
The kind-hearted merchant made him sit down in an easy-chair, and, when the wine came, pressed upon him a glass of good old port.
“Yes, it is a great shock. You say that it is more than a year since my uncle died.”