Several times in the next half hour John Holl went out into the yard, and spelt over the name “John Holl, dust contractor,” and repeated it over many times to himself. It was not until six o’clock, when the whole family were seated round the table, James at his old place by Sarah’s side as half laughing half crying she cut up the bread and butter, that John really realised to himself that it must be true, and that he was really and identically “John Holl, Dust Contractor.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER X WELL MATCHED. Mr. Barton closed the office immediately after the departure of Arthur Prescott, and went straight home. Very wrath was his wife when he told her the events of the day. “You are a miserable cur, Barton, and I always told you so.” This was all the comfort he got from Rachel. Presently she continued, “at any rate, you ought to get a round sum out of that young Bingham for that paper he gave you.” Mr. Barton reflected. “Well, yes, Rachel; as you say, something ought to be done there.” “Something done!” Rachel said, contemptuously; “you are a poor thing, Barton. It’s lucky for you you’ve made up your mind to drop the business; you never had much head, though I was fool enough once to think you had; you’re getting to be a downright fool—that’s what you are.” Mr. Barton uttered a feeble protest. “Don’t tell me, Robert Barton. I know you, if no one else does, and you may take my word for it. Do you think this young Bingham could let you keep that paper? Why, when he sees this new heir, he will know at once why you went to him to sell the secret, and he will see that he is all right, for the boy’s life is not worth, you say, a year’s purchase. Well, what would his chance be worth if you were to go to the old man, and prove to him that Bingham knew about the boy being alive, and had paid you to keep it dark? You ought not to give up that paper, Barton, for a penny under a couple of thousand. That will be something out of the fire at any rate.” “You have got a head on your shoulders, Rachel, there’s no mistake about that.” “It’s very lucky for you, Barton, I have,” his wife said, mollified; “it’s lucky we’ve one between the two of us, anyhow.” Fred Bingham came up to town a few days after James had been installed in his new home. The evening after his arrival he as usual went to call upon his uncle. He was astonished upon entering the drawing-room to see a pale young man, sitting in a sort of invalid chair, with his uncle and Miss Heathcote. “How are you, Fred?” Captain Bradshaw said, warmly. “Here is a gentleman I wish to introduce you to. My grandson James. There, my boy, congratulate me,”