“Well, sir, a decent-looking man—an old man, sir—not a gentleman—but he looks strange; rather, I should say, as if he had been drinking. Wild about the eyes, you know, sir.” “And he won't say what he wants, James?” “No, sir; all he will say is that his name is Stephen Walker.” “Stephen Walker?” Captain Bradshaw repeated to himself once or twice. “Stephen Walker? I seem to know the name; yes, I remember, now. Stephen Walker, tobacconist. The man Frank picked up—the broken-down gentleman with the pretty daughter. What the deuce can he want?” Then aloud, for this had been muttered to himself, “Show him into the library, James. You may as well wait here till I come back, Alice; I don't suppose I shall be a minute.” “If the man is drunk, Uncle, had you not better tell James to wait at the door?” “Pooh! my dear,” the old officer laughed. “I fancy he's nearly as old as I am. If I want James, I can ring the bell.” Then he rose and went into the library, into which the visitor had already been ushered. Stephen Walker was standing by the table. He was silent for a minute after the door was shut, looking steadily at Captain Bradshaw, as if to read his character. Captain Bradshaw, in return, looked at him. He saw at once that the footman's surmise was unfounded, but he saw too by the compressed lips and flashing eye that the man was from some cause in a state of extreme agitation and fury; indeed for a moment the thought occurred to him that his visitor was mad. This idea was at once dismissed when Stephen Walker began to speak.