"I feel no particular interest in the matter. I confess I don't like the boy, but for his uncle's sake I hope he may do well. And, now, Brandon, I must ask you to leave me, as I have some letters to write."
"That will be a good solution of the difficulty," soliloquized Renwick Bates, when he found himself alone. "The boy evidently suspects me, and I should like to get him out of the way. Some accident might happen to him, or he might get into some scrape. At any rate, his plan chimes in with my own wishes, and if I have an opportunity I will help him to leave Waterford."
Two days later, as Dean was walking home from the village store with a small basket of groceries, he met a stranger—a man with very dark hair and a sallow complexion. He was of medium size, and had a cast in one eye which gave a sinister expression to his face.
"I suppose you live in the village, boy?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"Then perhaps you can direct me to the house of Renwick Bates."
"Squire Bates?"
"Is that what you call him?" asked the stranger, with an amused smile.
"Yes, sir."