“Why, yes, sir,” said the youth abruptly, with a mixture of irritation and compunction. “Perhaps what I say may look very ungrateful; but--why did you send a policeman to my mother? That is not the way to inquire about a man if you mean to trust him. I don’t say you have any call to trust me--” “A policeman!” said Mr. Brownlow, in consternation. “Well, sir, the fellows there,” cried the energetic young savage, pointing behind him, “call him Inspector. I don’t mean to say you were to take me on my own word; any inquiries you liked to make we were ready to answer; but a policeman--and to my mother?” Mr. Brownlow laughed, but yet this explosion gave him a certain uneasiness. “Compose yourself,” he said, “the man is not a policeman, but he is a confidential agent, whom when I can’t see about any thing myself--but I hope he did not say any thing or ask any thing that annoyed Mrs.--your mother,” Mr. Brownlow added, hurriedly; and if the jocular youths in the office had seen something like a shade of additional color rise on his elderly cheek, their amusement and their suspicions would have been equally confirmed. “Well, no,” said young Powys, the compunction gaining ground; “I beg your pardon, sir; you are very kind. I am sure you must think me ungrateful--but--” “Nonsense!” said Mr. Brownlow; “it is quite right you should stand up for your mother. The man is not a policeman--and I never--intended him--to trouble--your mother,” he added, with hesitation. “He went to make inquiry, and these sort of people take their own way; but he did not annoy her, I hope?” “Oh, no!” said the youth, recovering his temper altogether. “She took it up as being some inquiry about my father, and she was a little excited, thinking perhaps that his friends--but never mind. I told her it was best we should depend only on ourselves, and I am sure I am right. Thank you; I shall have good news to tell her to-day.” “Stop a little,” said Mr. Brownlow, feeling a reaction upon himself of the compunction which had passed over his young companion. “She thought it was something about your father? Is there any thing mysterious, then, about your father? I told you there was a Lady Powys who had lived here.” “I don’t think there is any thing mysterious about him,” said the young man. “I scarcely remember him, though I am the eldest. He died quite young--and my poor mother has always thought that his friends--But I never encouraged her in that idea, for my part.” “That his friends could do something for you?” said Mr. Brownlow. “Yes, that is what she thought. I don’t think myself there is any foundation for it; and seeing they have never found us out all these years--five-and-twenty years--” “Five-and-twenty years!” Mr. Brownlow repeated, with a start--not that the coincidence was any thing, but only that the mere sound of the word startled him, excited as he was.