"Vin, who is that old man?"
"Well, you saw, aunt," he made answer.
"Ob, yes, I saw. I saw. But I am none the wiser. I could not make him out at all. Sometimes I thought he was a self-conceited old donkey, who was simply gabbling at random; and again he seemed really to believe what he was saying, about his connection with those Beatons and de Bethunes and the Scotch kings. But there's something behind it all, Vin; I tell you there is; and I can't make it out. There's something mysterious about him—"
"There's nothing mysterious at all!" he exclaimed, impatiently.
"But who is he, then?" she persisted. "What is he? Where is his family? Where are his relatives?"
"I don't think he has any, if it comes to that, except his granddaughter," her nephew replied.
"What does he do, then? How does he exist?"
He was beginning to resent this cross-examination; but yet he said civilly enough—
"I am not in the habit of making inquiries about the income of everyone I meet; but I understand they have some small sum of money between them—not much: and then he has published books; and he writes for the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle. Is that enough?"
"Where does he live?"