"Who is he?" I asked.
"He's half-brother to our friend Olivant, whose mother married again, and died when she gave the boy to the world. They call him Arnold Millard, and he's dependent on his half-brother for the clothes he wears and the food he eats. And yet, forsooth, has the cheek to step in and pretend to be in love with the girl destined for the other man."
"But her father—Lucas Savell—what does he say?"
"He dare not say anything; it's not in his hands. Our friend Olivant can turn him out neck and crop at a moment's notice, and he knows it. Oh, I can tell you Murray Olivant's a man to be looked up to; he rules every one and everything. Keep in his good books, Charlie, and you'll never starve; but you mustn't offend him. I don't know what would have become of me," he added plaintively, "if I hadn't happened to stumble across him. True, I've done some shady things for him; but he's been very good to me."
I remember that I strove hard for the next day or two, while I awaited orders from my new master, to thrash out in my mind the complicated thing that was before me, that I might work out the pitiful story to the advantage of those in whom I was so passionately interested. For, think of my position! It was my fate to see again two helpless beings striving hard to work out their love story, just as I had striven with Barbara in the old days, and beset on all hands by enemies. This Barbara, who had risen, as it were, from the ashes of her dead mother to take up the burden that mother had laid down, was alone in the world, save for the helpless boy who loved her; and I knew inevitably that stronger forces than any she could combat would bear upon them and drive them asunder. That was inevitable, unless I could do something to help them; and I was an old and broken man, degraded and useless, with my soul stained with murder, and with the record of twenty wasted years behind me. I was in despair when I thought about it; it seemed impossible that I could do anything.
Two days later I was told by Jervis Fanshawe that he had received a message from Olivant saying that I was to present myself to that gentleman at once, and take my orders. The better to be sure of me, Fanshawe went with me; he took me to a great house in a fashionable quarter of the town, where I found that Murray Olivant lived in great style in a beautifully furnished flat, with a highly respectable manservant to attend upon him. I know that the man looked at me contemptuously enough as he left us in the hall of the place; my guardian he seemed to know, and told him that Mr. Olivant would see him at once. I was left standing in the hall, when presently Fanshawe was conducted into the presence of his patron; they kept me waiting quite a long time before the manservant appeared again, after a bell had been rung, and told me I was wanted.
"You're to go in there," said the man, jerking his head towards a door at the other side of the hall.
I went in, and found Murray Olivant lounging in a deep chair before the fire; Jervis Fanshawe stood at a little distance from him, a shabby figure indeed in contrast to the other man. Olivant was smoking a big cigar, which he was nervously turning over and over between his teeth, the while he frowned at me through the smoke. I did not speak; I waited again while they discussed what was to be done with me, in that fashion they had used before, quite as though I were a piece of furniture that had been purchased, and for which a place had to be found.
"You'll have to get him some clothes—something dark and respectable," said Olivant. "Get them to-day; he must go down to Hammerstone Market to-night, taking my luggage. Also he'll take a letter from me to Savell; I shall follow to-morrow. Does he remember where the place is, do you think? You Tinman," he called to me; "do you know where Hammerstone Market is?"
"I remember it, sir," I replied.