The hall was a lofty one with a polished floor and a broad balustraded staircase. Paintings hung upon the walls and rich Eastern hangings screened the doorways. There was a massiveness about everything that indicated opulence in the owner.
“Your grandfather,” said the soldier, “is evidently a person of some consequence.”
“He is engaged in the West Indian trade,” answered Ezra, “and is accounted a very rich man.”
“I see.” The soldier of fortune twisted one end of his moustache. “This war, however, will put a check to his money-making for a time, I think.”
“It has all but ruined the trade of them all. And I wonder how much,” speculated the boy, “that has to do with the British leaning of most of the merchants.”
“A great deal, you may depend,” chuckled Gilbert Scarlett. “Touch a trader’s purse and you touch him upon a most delicate part. Not,” hastily, “that I mean to cast any discredit upon your relative. I speak of merchants in the bulk.”
“It is not for me to defend my grandfather,” said Ezra with a smile, “even if you did select him from them all.” For there came a confused hubbub of voices, above which was one high, harsh and threatening. “As you shall see in a moment, he is in every way competent to take care of himself.”
Even as he spoke the hangings over the far doorway were flung aside and a tall, grim-faced old man, with thin white hair and of gaunt, powerful frame, stepped into the hall. With head erect and frowning brows he came down the hall; his eyes were hard with anger.
“So,” said he, and Scarlett at once learned that he was the owner of the harsh voice, “you have seen fit to show yourself at last, I see.”
Ezra bowed respectfully.