"Mine, sir? Well, I can't help thinking that the whole was left to Mr. Basil, and that if he's alive the place is no more Mr. James's than it is mine. I think it particularly for two reasons: one because the old man always said it would be Basil's; and again if it was given to Mr. James, whether by will or by deed of gift, he would have taken care to show abroad the will or the deed that gave it him, and so set the rumours at rest for good. Not but what all the Castlemaines are close and haughty-natured men, never choosing to volunteer information about themselves. So that----"
"Now then, John Bent! It's about time you began to lay the cloth and see to the silver."
No need to say from whom the interruption came. Mrs. Bent, her face flushed to the colour of the cherry ribbons, whisked in and whisked out again. John followed; and set about his cloth-laying. The stranger sat where he was, in a reverie, until called to dinner.
It was a small, but most excellent repast, the wine taken with it some of the Dolphin's choice Burgundy, of which it had a little bin. John Bent waited on his guest, who dined to his complete satisfaction. He was about to leave the bottle on the table after dinner, but the guest motioned it away.
"No, no more; I do not drink after dinner. It is not our custom in France."
"Oh, very well, sir. I'll cork it up for to-morrow. I--I beg your pardon, sir," resumed the landlord, as he drew the cloth from the table, "what name shall I put down to you, sir?"
The stranger rose and stood on the hearthrug, speaking distinctly when he gave his name.
Speaking distinctly. Nevertheless John Bent seemed not to hear it, for he stared like one in a dream.
"What?" he gasped, in a startled tone of terror, as he staggered back against the sideboard; and some of the fresh colour left his face. "What name did you say, sir?"
"Anthony Castlemaine."