"No; he's not likely to do that," assented the old man. "Once we're out of this world, Master Rupert, we don't come back again. The injustice we have left behind us can't be repaired that way."
Rupert rose. He went to the window, opened it, and leaned out whistling. He was tired of the subject as touching himself; had long looked upon it as an unprofitable theme. As he stood there enjoying the calmness of the evening the tall man with the white beard came back again down the avenue.
Mr. Daw, for he it was, had the red umbrella in his hand. He turned his head to the window as he passed it, looked steadily at Rupert, paused, went close up, and put his hand on Rupert's arm.
"You are Rupert Trevlyn?"
"Yes," replied Rupert.
"I should have known you anywhere from your resemblance to your father; I should have known you had I met you in the crowded streets of London. You are wonderfully like him."
"Where did you know my father?" inquired Rupert.
Instead of answering, the stranger opened the house-door and stepped into the room. Ann curtseyed; old Canham rose and stood with his hat in his hand—that white beard seemed to demand respect. He—the stranger—took Rupert's hand in his.
"I have been up to the house to inquire for you: but they told me you were not well, and had gone to rest."
"Did they?" said Rupert. "I had intended to lie down, but the evening was so pleasant that I came out instead. You spoke of my father: did you know him?"