"It must be an old card of your father's, James," she remarked, "given, most likely, year's ago, to some one to send in, should he ever require to present himself here--perhaps to crave a favour."
This view, just at the moment it was spoken, seemed feasible enough to Mr. Castlemaine, and his brow lost its fierceness. Another minute, and he saw how untenable it was.
"My father never had such a card as this, Sophia. Plain 'Anthony Castlemaine,' without hold or handle. His cards had 'Mr.' before the name. And look at the strokes and flourishes--it's not like an English card. What sort of a person is it, Miles?"
"A youngish gentleman sir. He has a lot of dark fur on his coat. He asked for Mr. James Castlemaine."
"Mr. James Castlemaine!" echoed the Master of Greylands, sharply, as he stalked from the room, card in hand.
The visitor was standing before a portrait in the drawing-room contemplating it earnestly. It was that of old Anthony Castlemaine, taken when he was about fifty years of age. At the opening of the door he turned round and advanced, his hand, extended and a pleasant smile on his face.
"I have the gratification, I fancy, of seeing my Uncle James!"
Mr. Castlemaine kept his hands to himself. He looked haughtily at the intruder; he spoke frigidly.
"I have not the honour of your acquaintance, sir."
"But my card tells you who I am," rejoined the young man. "I am indeed your nephew, uncle; the son of your elder brother. He was Basil, and you are James."