“Yes, sir. You know him very well—Thomas Weir.”
“Ah! He told me he had a son in London. Are you that son?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the youth, swallowing a rising sob.
“Then what is the matter? Your father is a good friend of mine, and would tell you you might trust me.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir. But you won’t believe me any more than my father.”
By this time I had perused his person, his dress, and his countenance. He was of middle size, but evidently not full grown. His dress was very decent. His face was pale and thin, and revealed a likeness to his father. He had blue eyes that looked full at me, and, as far as I could judge, betokened, along with the whole of his expression, an honest and sensitive nature. I found him very attractive, and was therefore the more emboldened to press for the knowledge of his story.
“I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own.”
“I thought so till to-night,” he answered. “But if my father would not believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?”
“Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be unfair.”
“No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me.”