“Your relative? What relation were you to the old Squire?”
“Was I—is he dead, then?”
“More than a year ago.”
“Sir,” said the stranger, with some excitement, “that man was my sister’s husband. I guess I’ve come here a trifle late. Dead? He didn’t look to have it in him. What say?”
It said a good deal for Mr Ratman’s nerve that in the tutor’s presence he took upon himself to reply boldly—
“My father died rather suddenly a year since. So you are my uncle?”
The American mayor stared at the speaker in bewilderment, which was not lessened by an abrupt laugh from the gentleman at the fireplace.
“I guess I’ll take a seat and work this out,” said he. “I’m your uncle, am I? I never should have known it, if you hadn’t been so obliging as to tell me, young man. Which branch of the family tree do you hang on to?”
“Your sister had a son, Roger Ingleton. That’s my name.”
“Is that so? And you’re the present Squire of Maxfield? Well, well. When did you come to life again?”