Hardcastle, who had a slight infusion of muscular Christianity in his creed, could not refrain from admiration. “That is not much like what one looks for in a lawyer’s clerk,” said the Rector. “What a chest that young fellow has got! Who is he, Brownlow?--not a Masterton man, I should think.” “He is a Canadian,” said Mr. Brownlow, “not very long in the office, but very promising. He has brought me some papers that I must attend to--” “Yes, yes, I understand,” said Mr. Hardcastle--“always business; but I shall stay to luncheon as you are at home. I suppose you mean to allow yourself some lunch?” “Surely,” said Mr. Brownlow; but it was impossible to reply otherwise than coldly. He had wanted no spy upon his actions, nobody to speculate on what he meant in the strange step he was about to take. He could not send his neighbor away; but at the same time he could not be cordial to him as if he desired his company. And then he turned to speak to his clerk, leaving the Rector, who went away in a puzzled state of mind, wondering whether Mr. Brownlow meant to be rude to him. As for young Powys, he came in by the window, taking off his hat, and looking at his employer with an honest mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “I had lost my way; I don’t know where I was going--” “You were going to the stables,” said Mr. Brownlow, “where I dare say you would have found something much more amusing than with me. Come in. You are later than I expected. How is it you did not come up in the dogcart? My son should have thought of that.” “He did not say any thing about it,” said Powys, “but I liked the walk. Mr. Wrinkell told me to bring you these, sir. They are the papers in the Wardell case; and he gave me some explanations which I was to repeat to you--some new facts that have just come out--”