“There was a false report of my death,” said Ratman, glancing a little nervously at the tutor, who was diligently removing the mud from his riding-boots.
“Wal, it’s singular. I never expected to see a nephew of mine again. Why, how long is it, now, since I went over? Thirty-seven years if it’s a day.”
“I can’t remember that,” said Ratman tentatively.
“Seeing you weren’t born, you’d find it hard,” said Mr Headland. “But, say, by all accounts you were a troublesome boy.”
“I was not all I might have been,” replied Mr Ratman, beginning to wish this cross-examination was over.
“Put it that way, certainly. You ran away, and left your mother, my sister, with a broken heart, I’ve heard say.”
“My father and I quarrelled, and I left home—yes.”
Here the tutor quitted the fire and came to where the two men sat.
“Excuse my interrupting you, sir,” said he to the stranger, “but your conversation interests me. The fact is, the Squire married a second time, and left a son, whose guardian I happen to be. By the old man’s will my ward is the heir. You will allow I have a right to feel interested in this gentleman, who only discovered six months ago that he was the lost elder brother.”
The good American sat back in his chair and looked from Ratman to Armstrong, and from Armstrong back to Ratman, in a state of painful bewilderment.