"Pardon me, sir, if I tell you what I think you are. An impostor."
"Ah no, do not be afraid, uncle. I am verily your nephew, Anthony Castlemaine. I have papers and legal documents with me to prove indisputably the fact; I bring you also a letter from my father, written on his death-bed. But I should have thought you might know me by my likeness to my father; and he--I could fancy that portrait had been taken for him"--pointing to the one he had been looking at. "He always said I greatly resembled my grandfather."
There could be no dispute as to the likeness. The young man's face was the Castlemaine face exactly: the well formed, handsome features, the clear and fresh complexion, the brilliant dark eyes. All the Castlemaines had been alike, and this one was like them all; even like James, who stood there.
Taking a letter from his pocket-book, he handed it to Mr. Castlemaine. The latter broke the seal--Basil's own seal; he saw that--and began to peruse it. While he did so, he reflected a little, and made up his mind.
To acknowledge his nephew. For he had the sense to see that no other resource would be left him. He did it with a tolerably good grace, but in a reserved cold kind of manner. Folding up the letter, he asked a few questions which young Anthony freely answered, and gave a brief account of the past.
"And Basil--your father--is dead, you say! Has been dead four weeks. This letter, I see, is dated Christmas Day."
"It was on Christmas Day he wrote it, uncle. Yes, nearly four weeks have elapsed since his death: it took place on the fourteenth of January; his wife, my dear mother, had died on the same day six years before. That was curious, was it not? I had meant to come over here immediately, as he charged me to do; but there were many matters of business to be settled, and I could not get away until now."
"Have you come over for any particular purpose?" coldly asked Mr. Castlemaine.
"I have come to stay, Uncle James. To take possession of my inheritance."
"Of your inheritance?"