“Is your name Gosford?” he said in his cold, level voice.
“It is, sir,” replied the Englishman, “—Anthony Gosford.”
“Well, Mr. Anthony Gosford,” replied my father, “kindly close the door that you have opened.”
Lewis plucked out his snuffbox and trumpeted in his many-colored handkerchief to hide his laughter.
The Englishman, thrown off his patronizing manner, hesitated, closed the door as he was bidden—and could not regain his fine air.
“Now, Mr. Gosford,” my father went on, “why was this room violated as we see it?”
“It was searched for Peyton Marshall's will, sir,” replied the man.
“How did you know that Marshall had a will?” said my father.
“I saw him write it,” returned the Englishman, “here in this very room, on the eighteenth day of October, 1854.”
“That was two years ago,” said my father. “Was the will here at Marshall's death?”