IT came to the knowledge of Sir Francis, during the ensuing week, that Mr. Grant was going to have a business interview with Fillmore. He thereupon took pen and paper, and wrote Mr. Grant a very polite note. He said that he had been thinking over their relations with each other, and had come to certain conclusions thereon, which he wished to communicate to Mr. Grant, in the confident belief that Mr. Grant would not find them distasteful. To do this by letter, however, would be, for several reasons, inexpedient; word of mouth, in matters of this kind, was a more convenient and flexible way of coming to an understanding. Sir Francis went on to say that he possessed a villa in Twickenham, whither he occasionally repaired during the summer to get a breath of fresh air. It chanced that he had arranged to drive out to this villa on the afternoon of Friday next; and if Mr. Grant did not object, he would call for him on the way, at any place which Mr. Grant would please to indicate. They would dine together at the villa, and Sir Francis would then provide his friend with a horse to ride home on. Hoping for a favorable reply, he had the honor to be Mr. Grant’s faithful friend and servant, Francis Bendibow.

Mr. Grant replied by return of post that he would be happy to accept Sir Francis Bendibow’s invitation, and that Sir Francis might call for him at four o’clock at the chambers of Mr. Fillmore in the city.

When Sir Francis read this answer, he flushed up to the roots of his hair, and sat quite still in his chair, staring fixedly at the letter which he held in his hand, and breathing in a labored and irregular manner. Presently the color faded out of his face, and he became extremely pale, and his hands cold. He rang the bell, and told the servant to bring him a decanter of wine, the greater part of which he drank, though it wanted but an hour of dinner. But the baronet had been in a nervous and anxious state for several days past; he had been worried, probably, by some of the exigencies and disappointments which are inseparable even from the most sagaciously conducted business; and he had moreover been seriously harassed by the odd behavior of his son Thomas, who, since the night of the Marquise’s party, had not been behaving like himself. He had been moody, reticent and inactive; had attended no cock-fights or rat-catchings; had foregone his customary horseback exercise, and had even gone so far as to refuse to drink more than half his usual quantity of wine. When his father addressed him, he had replied curtly and evasively; and yet Sir Francis had several times detected his son in the act of watching him with a very intent and peculiar expression. What was the matter with him? Had he contracted a secret marriage? or had he suffered a disappointment in love? or had he been losing money at play? These questions, which the baronet could not, and his son evidently would not answer, occasioned the former a good deal of disquietude. But all this would scarcely account for his vivid emotion at the receipt of so commonplace a thing as an acceptance of an invitation. Had he expected Mr. Grant to refuse?

On the forenoon of Friday, Mr. Grant put into his pocket a leathern wallet containing a variety of papers, and betook himself to the city. Previous to starting he had a short colloquy with Marion.

“I shall not return until after you are all in bed and asleep,” he said. “You must on no account sit up or keep awake for me.”

“What are you going to do?” inquired Marion, point blank.

“Something which will perhaps give you a chance to display your magnanimity,” Mr. Grant answered with a smile.

The girl gave him a deep and somewhat troubled look.

“I shall be glad when there are no more mysteries,” she said. “Nothing good comes of them.”

“It depends in some measure upon yourself how soon this mystery is dissipated,” returned Mr. Grant. “Have you no mysteries of your own?”

“Oh, housekeeping mysteries—how to boil a potato, or starch a frill; I shall never have any other kind,” answered Marion with a laugh, and turning away.

“To-morrow,” said Mr. Grant, after a pause, “you and I will have a chat about mysteries, and perhaps we may clear each other up. Good-by, my dear.” He took her hand, and drawing her a little toward him, kissed her cheek. She looked at him, reddening, and said:

“Be careful of yourself. Good-by.”

“Proud and jealous,” said the old gentleman to himself, as he marched down the street to the corner where the coach passed; “but we shall circumvent that, I hope. What is the use of my twenty thousand pounds if she will not be my daughter? But there is common sense at the bottom of Philip’s romance, that will counteract and persuade her stubbornness—if it comes to that.”

The coach came along, and in due time landed Mr. Grant in the city; and ten minutes later he had entered Merton Fillmore’s private office, which had witnessed many singular revelations, but none more so, perhaps, than the one which was now going to take place.

“Good day, sir,” said the lawyer, rising ceremoniously as his visitor entered. “Is your business likely to occupy us long?”

“It chiefly concerns the drawing up of my will,” replied Mr. Grant. “And since the dispositions that I wish to make are somewhat precise and complicated, we may as well put the limit at not less than two hours.”

“I am at your disposal, then, until four o’clock.” Here Fillmore took out some blank sheets of paper, which he placed before him on the desk. Resting his hands upon these, with the tips of the fingers meeting each other, he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Grant and said slowly:

“Before we begin, I wish to put one question to you. You will, of course, decide whether or not it be worth your while to answer it.”

“I am at your service,” said the other courteously.

Fillmore paused a moment, looking down at his hands. Then, raising his head, he asked abruptly, “What is your name?”

“I had intended to inform you on that point as soon as the occasion required,” answered the old man quietly. “The name by which I have chosen to be known here is not mine. I am Charles John Grantley. My father was Thomas Grantley, of whom you have doubtless heard.”

Fillmore leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. Presently he said, “Sir Francis Bendibow spoke to me regarding your identity a few weeks ago; and, taking all the circumstances into consideration, I own that I shared the surprise he seemed to feel at your reappearance in England.”

“I can understand that,” was the composed reply; “but it has always been my intention to end my days in my native land.”

“It seems you have amassed a fortune during the interval?”

“I have laid by some twenty thousand pounds.”

“Which you now propose to dispose of by will?”

“With your assistance, sir.”

“You are a man of the world, Mr. Grantley, and acquainted with the general rules by which society is regulated. I cannot suppose you to be ignorant that a person in the peculiar position which you are understood to occupy might find it difficult to establish a claim to this, or any other property.”

“I shall not affect to misapprehend your meaning, sir,” returned the old gentleman, with a manner of grave kindliness; “and I will answer you with as much openness as justice to myself and others allows. I left England twenty years ago under a cloud of disaster and contumely. I chose exile in preference to inquiry, and the results which such an inquiry would produce. My reasons for taking that course I did not disclose then, nor shall I willingly do so now. I do not apprehend that I shall be called upon to alter this purpose; but, should it turn out otherwise, I have the means to meet the emergency, and I shall know how to use them.” Here he laid his right hand upon the leathern pocket-book which he had placed upon the table. “It is far from being my wish, however,” he continued, “to become the occasion of any disturbance or controversy. I rather desire that such small influence as I may still be able to exercise over my fellow beings may be in the direction of making some of them happy.”

“Am I to infer that you contemplate anything in the way of restitution?” the lawyer demanded.

“No.”

“You are quite right, of course, in withholding your confidence,” rejoined the other, with a coldness that was partly assumed to veil his perplexity. “But—is it your intention to present yourself hereafter under your true name?”

“There is only one other person beside yourself, to whom it was necessary I should declare myself—I mean Sir Francis Bendibow; and I took an early opportunity of doing that. To the rest of the world I intend at present to be Mr. Grant. The fulfillment of the bequests of my will may hereafter necessitate the revelation of who I really am; but I trust that may not occur during my lifetime. And, even in the alternative event, I doubt not the revelation could be so managed as not to incommode any one.”

“Well, Mr. Grantley,” said the lawyer, taking up a pen and turning it between his fingers, “your attitude is unexpected and, so far as my information would lead me to judge, unaccountable. But that is none of my affair. I need only to put it to you whether you feel so secure in that attitude as to warrant a belief that the directions of your will have a reasonable chance of getting themselves fulfilled—whether you feel confident that third parties may not interfere to thwart your intentions?”

“On that point I have no misgivings whatever,” replied Mr. Grantley, with a slight smile. “My only apprehension would respect the principal legatee.”

“I will not attempt to understand you,” said Fillmore, smiling also. “If you please, we will proceed to the particulars.”

Hereupon the two entered upon a prolonged discussion, into which we shall not be obliged to follow them; since what is of import in it will appear in its proper place. At a few minutes after four o’clock the colloquy ended, and Mr. Grant, after shaking hands very cordially with the lawyer, bade him farewell and went down stairs.