The words were spoken by the brown-coated old gentleman. Owen, starting up, followed him into the inner office. Here Mr Fluke, nimbly taking his seat on his high stool with his back to the desk, again asked in a testy tone, “What is it you want?” Owen stood, hat in hand, as he had done nearly two hours before, and began briefly recounting his history.
“Tut, tut, what’s all that to me?” exclaimed the old gentleman, pushing up his spectacles, and taking a huge pinch of snuff, as he narrowly scrutinised the boy with his sharp grey eyes. “What more have you got to say for yourself?”
“I did not explain, sir, as I ought to have done at first, that my mother’s name was Walford, and that she was the daughter of a Miss Susan Fluke, who married my grandfather, Mr Henry Walford.”
The old gentleman had not hitherto ceased kicking his legs against the high stool, a custom which had become habitual. He stopped, however, on hearing this, and looked more keenly than ever at Owen.
“What proof have you got, boy, that your mother was once Susan Fluke?” he asked in a sharp tone.
“David Rowe, who is clerk to Mr Orlando Browne the lawyer, found the name in a book which had once been my grandmother’s, and left by her to my mother, called ‘Sturm’s Reflections.’”
“I should like to see the book,” said Mr Fluke, in a tone which showed more interest than he had hitherto exhibited.
“David Rowe has the book at Fenside, but I could get it sent to you, sir, if you wish to see it,” said Owen.
“I do wish to see it; I want proof of the strange story you tell me,” said the old man, taking another pinch of snuff. “And suppose it is true, what do you want of me?”