It was some days before I had an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with him. We were preparing for the spring assizes, and there was work enough in the office to have employed twice the number of hands. Nothing was heard but the scratching of pens upon paper, from early day until midnight.
At last the hurry was over, and we had more leisure to look about us. Mr. Moncton was attending a circuit in the country, and his watchful eye was no longer upon us. The clerks were absent at dinner; Mr. Harrison and I were alone in the office, which he never left till six, when he returned to his lodgings in Charlotte Street to dine; and unless there happened to be a great stress of business which required his presence, we saw him no more that night.
After regarding me for some minutes with an earnest scrutiny which, impulsive creature that I was, almost offended me, he said—
"Am I mistaken, or is your name really Moncton?"
"Really and truly, Geoffrey Moncton, at your service. What made you doubt the fact?"
"I had always heard that Robert Moncton had but one son."
"Surely there is enough of the breed, without your wishing to affiliate me upon him. I flatter myself that we do not in the least resemble each other. And as to the name, I have so little respect for it, for his sake, that I wish some one would leave me a fortune to change it; for, between ourselves, I have small reason to love it. He is my uncle—my father's younger brother—and I find the relationship near enough."
This explanation led to a brief sketch of my painful, though uneventful history, to which Mr. Harrison listened with an air of such intense interest that, though it flattered my vanity, not a little surprised me. When I concluded, he grasped my hand firmly, muttering to himself—
"It is like him—just like him. The infernal scoundrel!"
"What do you know about him?" said I, astonished at the excited state into which my revelations had thrown him.