"He must be out of his mind," said Thomas Hill. "Greylands' Rest is Mr. Castlemaine's; safe enough too, I presume."
"But a man such as this may give trouble, don't you see."
"No, sir, I don't see it--with all deference to your opinion. Mr. Castlemaine has only to show him it is his, and send him to the right about----"
A knock at the room door interrupted the sentence. The clerk rose to open it, and received a card and a message, which he carried to his master. The banker looked rather startled as he read the name on it: "Anthony Castlemaine."
Somewhere about an hour before this, young Anthony Castlemaine, after a late breakfast a la fourchette, had turned out of the Dolphin Inn to walk to Stilborough. Repulsed by his Uncle James on the previous day, and not exactly seeing what his course should be, he had come to the resolution of laying his case before his other uncle, the banker. Making enquiries of John Bent as to the position of the banker's residence, he left the inn. Halting for a few seconds to gaze across beyond the beach, for he thought the sea the most beautiful object in nature and believed he should never tire of looking at it, he went on up the hill, past the church, and was fairly on his road to Stilborough. It was a lonely road enough, never a dwelling to be seen all the way, save a farm homestead or two lying away amid their buildings; but Anthony Castlemaine walked slowly, taking in all the points and features of his native land, that were so strange to his foreign eye. He stood to read the milestones; he leaned on the fences; he admired the tall fine trees, leafless though they were; he critically surveyed the two or three carts and waggons that passed. The sky was blue, the sun bright, he enjoyed the walk and did not hurry himself: but nevertheless he at length reached Stilborough, and found out the house of the banker. He rang at the private door.
The servant who opened it saw a young man dressed in a rather uncommon kind of overcoat, faced with fur. The face was that of a stranger; but the servant fancied it was a face he had seen before.
"Is my uncle Peter at home?"
"Sir!" returned the servant, staring at him. For the only nephew the banker possessed, so far as he knew, was the son of the Master of Greylands. "What name did you please to ask for, sir?"
"Mr. Peter Castlemaine. This is his residence I am told."
"Yes, sir, it is."