“I believe so,” said I.
“Did you know that your stepmother had married again?” he asked.
“Married!” I exclaimed. “To whom?”
“To Martin Cobb.”
“To my guardian?” I asked, in astonishment.
Not heeding my question, he continued:
“You're intending to go home to-morrow, I believe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My boy,” said he, “I have an interest in you. I was your father's friend and adviser for many years. I came all this distance to tell you not to go to London. Do not ask me why, I beg you,” said he, with an impatient gesture when I attempted to speak. “It would do you no good to learn my reason for making this request. Listen to this—it's important to you: There's an uncle of yours in America, your nearest relative, I believe. Of course you have heard your father speak of him. A most eccentric fellow! but a man of fine ability. He was a graduate of Oxford and a physician of great skill and learning. Thirty-five years ago he went to Canada and finally settled in a large town on one of the great lakes not far from the border. It was Detroit, I believe. Your father told me, shortly before his death, that he had not heard from your uncle for many years. I have written to him twice within a twelvemonth, but have received no reply. I want you to go over and look him up. If you should find that he is dead, there's no harm done, and you can take time to look about for a business opportunity. If you don't like it, come back, but, if you can content yourself there for awhile, you had better do so.”
“But, sir, I have no money.”