“Your pardon, Mr. Carvel,” he said, “but we men of business have need to be careful. Let us sit, and I will examine your letters. Your determination must have been suddenly taken,” he added, “for I have nothing from Mr. Carvel on the subject of your coming.”
“Letters! You have heard nothing!” I gasped, and there stopped short and clinched the table. “Has not my grandfather written of my disappearance?”
Immediately his expression went back to the one he had met me with. “Pardon me,” he said again.
I composed myself as best I could in the face of his incredulity, swallowing with an effort the aversion I felt to giving him my story.
“I think it strange he has not informed you,” I said; “I was kidnapped near Annapolis last Christmas-time, and put on board of a slaver, from which I was rescued by great good fortune, and brought to Scotland. And I have but just made my way to London.”
“The thing is not likely, Mr.—, Mr.—,” he said, drumming impatiently on the board.
Then I lost control of myself.
“As sure as I am heir to Carvel Hall, Mr. Dix,” I cried, rising, “you shall pay for your insolence by forfeiting your agency!”
Now the roan was a natural coward, with a sneer for some and a smirk for others. He went to the smirk.
“I am but looking to Mr. Carvel's interests the best I know how,” he replied; “and if indeed you be Mr. Richard Carvel, then you must applaud my caution, sir, in seeking proofs.”