"Did you know this--this Mr. Philip Salter?"--holding the book open at the words.
For answer the agent threw his eyes straight into Karl's face, and paused. "Did you know him, Sir Karl?"
"I never knew him. I have heard somewhat about him."
"Ay, few persons but have, I expect," returned the agent, with a kind of groan. "He was my cousin, sir."
"Your cousin!" echoed Karl.
"My own cousin: we were sisters' sons. He was Philip Salter; I am Philip Smith."
Karl's eyes were opened. In more senses than one.
"The fool that Philip Salter showed himself!" ejaculated Philip Smith--and it was evident by the bitter tone that the subject was a sore one. "I was in his office, Sir Karl, a clerk under him; but he was some years younger than I. He might have done so well: none of us had the smallest idea but what he was doing well. It was all through private and illegitimate speculation. He got into a hole where the mire was deep, and he used dangerous means when at his wits' end to get himself out of it. It did for him what you know, and it ruined me; for, being his cousin, men thought I must have known of it, and my place was taken from me."
"Where is he now?" asked Karl.
"I don't know. Sometimes we think he is dead. After his escape, we had reason to believe that he got off to Canada, but we were never made certain of it, and have never heard from him in any way. He may be in some of the backwoods there, afraid to write."