While still trying to bring his mind to consider what he should do, he saw a person approaching the house by the avenue. He clutched his stick and threw up his head. It might be Mr Sleech or one of his myrmidons. He would do battle with them to the death, at all events. The stranger approached; Paul kept eyeing him. His scrutiny was more satisfactory than he had expected.
“He does not look like one of Mr Sleech’s villains,” he said to himself.
The stranger came close up, without hesitation, to Paul, whose aspect was, however, somewhat threatening.
“I think I know you, my friend,” said the stranger, with a kind expression, though his look was sad. “I have come to inquire about a young man in whom I am deeply interested. I find that he was here some time back. I have been enabled to trace him. I speak of Harry Tryon. Do you know anything of him?”
“If you will tell me who you are, sir, it may be I will answer that question,” said Paul.
“I am Roger Kyffin, Harry Tryon’s guardian. Will that satisfy you, my friend?” was the answer.
“Ah, that it will, sir,” answered Paul, in a tone of sadness which struck Mr Kyffin.
“Can you give me any account of the lad?” asked Mr Kyffin, in an anxious voice.
“He went and entered aboard the ‘Brilliant,’ and now he’s gone, sir; gone!” answered Paul. “He and the captain both together. They lie many fathom deep in the cold ocean out there. I have been over the spot. There, sir, read what is writ there; that tells all about it.” And the old soldier handed Mr Kyffin the newspaper.
Roger Kyffin read it with moistened eyes, and a choking sensation came in his throat.