"What do you want, young man?" said he, as I paused rather longer that politeness would tolerate before his door.
His voice was that of Matt Rockwood; and, as I do not care to prolong a sensation, I at once jumped to the conclusion that the person before me was the brother of my foster-father, though Morgan Blair had assured me that he also was in his grave.
"If you please, sir, I would like to speak to you," I replied to his question.
"Come in," he added, laying aside his newspaper. "What is your business with me?"
I entered the room, which was a parlor, and from it a bedroom opened on one side. The apartments were very handsomely furnished, and as the gentleman before me was very well dressed, I concluded that fortune had dealt more kindly with him than with Matt.
"Are you Mr. Rockwood?" I asked, gazing earnestly at him.
"I am."
"Mr. Mark Rockwood?"
"Yes."