“I am a rich man, Nancy Follett; your betrothed is a gentleman of means.” “Indeed!” she said in surprise. “Yes; I have heaps of money. I am a landed proprietor. In another part of England, a long way from here, there is a beautiful mansion which belongs to your humble servant, Adrian Rowton—it is furnished richly, softly, luxuriously. In short, I have a nest of down for my wild bird, and I can deck her with jewels. Oh! child, how lovely you will look when you wear your husband’s diamonds.” CHAPTER VI. LONG JOHN. When an hour later Rowton returned to the Bungalow, Samson met him in the porch. “Scrivener has come,” he said. “Scrivener! I did not expect him to-day,” said Rowton, a frown gathering between his thick brows. “He has come, sir, and he wants to see you; he is waiting in the dining-room. There is a good bit of excitement about him—I cannot tell what the news can be.” “Well, I’ll go to him,” said Rowton; “don’t keep me, Samson.” “When will you want the horse saddled, sir? You are going to catch the two o’clock train, are you not?” “No, I have changed my mind. I shall not leave here before night or early to-morrow morning; get back to your work now, don’t keep me.” The man favoured Rowton with a keen glance; he then turned softly on his heel, whistling as he did so. “Gone out in his best clothes,” he remarked to himself; “come back again with the airs of a lord; changes his plans when there is danger in the wind. Now, what does this mean? Seems to me it ain’t far to guess—sweethearting, and marrying, and giving in marriage. Good Heaven! if this sort of thing goes on we are all lost.” Samson returned to some mysterious carpentering that was engaging his attention in the stable, and Rowton went into the dining-room. A little man, with sandy hair and a thin face, was standing by one of the windows. He was vulgarly dressed and had somewhat the appearance of a fifth-rate commercial traveller. He had large bushy whiskers, a shade redder than his hair, but his small eyes were light and set far back in his head. With the exception of his whiskers the little man had a clean-shaven face, which revealed the lines of remarkably thin and somewhat crooked lips. The lips alone marked the face with the stamp of originality—they were cruel and repulsive in their expression. When he saw Rowton enter he turned and came up to him with a quick, alert tread. “You have kept me waiting for over an hour,” he said. “Well, I am sorry, Scrivener. You see I did not expect you,” said Rowton. He flung himself into a chair as he spoke, and favoured his unprepossessing visitor with a quizzical glance. “Come, no nonsense of that sort,” said Scrivener. “You were bound to be here. I thought the boxes would be packed and ready to be sent off; Samson tells me there is nothing done.” “Everything that is necessary is done,” said Rowton. “I don’t choose to be called over the coals by Samson.”