"Very odd!" again repeated the General. "Very odd! Says he must see me?"

"Sayed it over and over, that it's important more to you than him.

Shall I show him in, General, or will you speak to him at the door?"

"Door be d.a.m.ned!" testily replied the old soldier. "I'm not going out there to accommodate a stranger, without either name or card. May be some begging-letter impostor. Tell him I can't see him to-night. He may come back in the morning."

"I've told him so, General, already. He says no; you must see him to-night."

"Must! The devil!"

"Well, General, if I'd be allowed to speak my opinion, he looks a good bit like that same gentleman you've mentioned."

"Who the deuce can it be, Nigel?" said the old soldier, turning to his son.

"I haven't the slightest idea myself," was Nigel's reply. "It wouldn't be that Lawyer Woolet? He answers very well to the description Williams gives of his late intruder."

"No, no, Master Nigel, it's not Mr Woolet. It's an article of hoomanity even uglier than him; though certain he have got something o'

a lawyer's look about him. But then he be a furriner; I can swear to that."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the General, using one of his mildest a.s.severations. "I can't think of any foreigner that can have business with me; but whether or no, I suppose I must see him. What say you, my son?"

"Oh, as for that," answered the latter, "there can be no harm in it.

I'll stay in the room with you; and if he becomes troublesome, I suppose, with the help of Williams here and the footman, we may be able to eject him."

"Lor, Master Nigel, he isn't bigger than our page-boy. I could take him up in my arms, and swing him hallway across the shrubberies. You needn't have no fear 'bout that."

"Come, come, Williams," said the General, "none of this idle talking.

Tell the gentleman I'll see him. Show him in."

Then, turning to his sister, he added--

"Nelly dear, you may as well go up to the drawing-room. Nigel and I will join you as soon as we've given an interview to this unexpected guest."

The spinster, gathering up some crochet-work that she had made a commencement on, sailed out of the room--leaving her brother and nephew to receive the nocturnal caller, who would not be denied.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

AN UNCOURTEOUS RECEPTION.

The old soldier and his son stood in silent expectation; for the oddity of an interview thus authoritatively demanded had summoned both to their feet. Outside they could hear the resumed exchange of speech between Williams and the stranger, and their two sets of footsteps sounding along the flagged pavement of the hall. Some seconds after, the stranger was shown inside the room, and the three were left alone-- Williams retiring at a sign from the General.

A more singular specimen of the _genus h.o.m.o_, or one less in keeping with the place, had never made appearance inside the dining-hall of an English country gentleman.

As Williams had a.s.serted, he was not much bigger than a page-boy; but for all that, he could not be less than forty years of age. In complexion he was dark as a gipsy, with long straight hair of crow's-wing blackness, and eyes scintillating like chips of fresh-broken coal.

His face was of the Israelitish type, while his dress, with the exception of a sort of capote, which he still kept upon his shoulders, had something of a professional cut about it, such as might be seen about men of the law in the Latinic countries of Europe. He might be an avocato, or notary. In his hand he held a hat, a sort of wide-awake, or Calabrian, which on entering the dining-room he had the courtesy to take off. Beyond this there was not much politeness shown by him, either in aspect or action; for notwithstanding his diminutive person, he appeared the very picture of pluck--of that epitomised kind seen in the terrier or weasel. It showed itself not so much in swagger as in an air of self-reliance, that seemed to say, "I have come here on an errand that will be its own excuse, and I know you won't send me back without giving me a satisfactory answer."

"What is it?" asked the General, as if this very thought had just pa.s.sed through his own mind.

The stranger looked towards Nigel, as much as to say, "Do you wish this young gentleman to be present?"

"That is my son," continued the old soldier. "Anything you have to say need not be kept secret from him."

"You have _another_ son?" asked the stranger, speaking in a foreign accent, but in English sufficiently intelligible. "I think you have another son, Signor General."

The question caused the General to start, while Nigel turned suddenly pale. The significant glance that accompanied the interrogatory told that the stranger knew something about Henry Harding.

"I have--or should have," replied the General. "What do you want to say of him, and why do you speak of him?"

"Do you know where your other son is, Signor General?"

"Well, not exactly, at present. Do _you_ know where he is? Who are you? and whence do you come?"

"Signor General, I shall be most happy to answer all three of your questions, if you only allow me to do it in the order, inverse to that in which you have put them."

"Answer them in what order you please; but do it quickly. The hour is late, and I've no time to stand here talking to an entire stranger."

"Signor General, I shall not detain you many minutes. My business is of a simple nature, and my time, like yours, is precious. First, then, I come from the city of Rome, which I need not tell you is in Italy.

Second, I am _un procuratore_--an attorney you call it in English.

Thirdly, and lastly, I _do_ know where your other son is."

The General again started, Nigel growing paler.

"Where is he?"

"This, Signor General, will inform you."

As he spoke, the _procuratore_ drew a letter from under his _capote_, and presented it to the General. It was that which had been written by Henry Harding in the mountains, under the dictation of Corvino, the bandit chief.

Putting on his spectacles, and drawing the light nearer to him, General Harding read the letter with a feeling of astonishment, tinctured with incredulity.

"This is nonsense!" said he, handing the doc.u.ment to Nigel. "Sheer nonsense! Read it, my son."

Nigel did as he was desired.

"What do _you_ make of it?" asked the General, addressing himself in an undertone to his son.

"That it's just what you say, father--nonsense; or perhaps something worse. It looks to me like a trick to extort money."

"Ah! But do you think, Nigel, that Henry has any hand in it?"

"I hardly know what to think, father," answered Nigel, continuing the whispered conversation. "It grieves me to say what I think; but I must confess it looks against him. If he has fallen into the hands of brigands--which I cannot believe, and I hope is not true--how should they know where to send such a letter? How could they tell he has a father capable of paying such a ransom for him, unless he has put them up to it? It is probable enough that he's in Rome, where this fellow says he has come from. That may all be. But a captive in the keeping of brigands! The thing is too preposterous!"

"Most decidedly it is. But what am I to make of this application?"

"To my mind," pursued the insinuating councillor, "the explanation is easy enough. He's run through his thousand pounds, as might have been expected, and he now wants more. I am sorry to believe such a thing, father, but it looks as if this is a tale got up to work upon your feelings, and get a fresh remittance of cash. At all events, he has not stinted himself in the sum asked for."