“Who?—I, sir-no.”
This was said with an air of offended dignity, and the manner of a man who, having made a positive assertion, sees that it is doubted, and wishes it to be thought that the incredulity is unjust.
The glittering eye of Nathan Gomer seemed to play over every feature of Mr. Grahame’s countenance. Suddenly he said, with startling abruptness—
“Ah! I remember it. I have it. Wilton is the name. Wilton, who follows the occupation of a gold-plate chaser. Has he not a claim—also wanting a link—to this property?”
It might have been fancy, but the sound of a whistle appeared to issue from the vicinity of a key-hole in the door of the ante-chamber overlooking the park.
“Wilton! Wilton!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, assuming an air of reflection, to hide his embarrassment. “Wilton! no, oh no! I know nothing of any such claim.”
“You do not!”
“No.”
“Nor the man himself?”
“No.”