“At all like me?”
“Not at all, I should say. But really, as I say, I can recall very little about him.”
The doctor uttered this in a tone which conveyed so broad a hint that he did not relish the subject, that Roger, decidedly mystified, desisted from further inquiries.
“What on earth,” said the former to Mr Armstrong, when at last they had reached Maxfield and the boy had left them, “what on earth has put all this into his head?”
“I cannot tell you. I rather hoped you would tell him all you knew; it would come better from you. If I know anything of Roger, he will find it out for himself, whether you like it or not.”
“Nice thing to be a family doctor,” growled Dr Brandram, “and have charge of the family skeletons. Between you and me, Armstrong, I was never quite satisfied about the story of the boy’s death abroad. The old man said he had had news of it, and that was all anybody, even the poor mother, ever got out of him.”
“Really, Brandram,” said the tutor, “you are a most uncomfortable person. I wish you would not make me a party to these mysteries. I don’t like them, they are upsetting.”
“Well, well, old fellow,” replied the doctor, “whatever it was once, it’s no mystery now; for the poor fellow has long ago made good his right to an inscription on the tombstone. You need have no doubt of that.”
A letter with an Indian post-mark, which arrived that same evening, served for the present, at least, to divert the thoughts of Roger as well as of his tutor to other channels.
The letter was from Captain Oliphant addressed to Mrs Ingleton.