"Would you be willing to have me leave home to seek my fortune?" "No; but your case is different. Dean's uncle is a poor man." "I suppose he could black boots for a living in some large place." "Well, bootblacks sometimes make very good pay." "You seem to be in favor of Dean's going away, papa?" "I feel no particular interest in the matter. I confess I don't like the boy, but for his uncle's sake I hope he may do well. And, now, Brandon, I must ask you to leave me, as I have some letters to write." "That will be a good solution of the difficulty," soliloquized Renwick Bates, when he found himself alone. "The boy evidently suspects me, and I should like to get him out of the way. Some accident might happen to him, or he might get into some scrape. At any rate, his plan chimes in with my own wishes, and if I have an opportunity I will help him to leave Waterford." Two days later, as Dean was walking home from the village store with a small basket of groceries, he met a stranger—a man with very dark hair and a sallow complexion. He was of medium size, and had a cast in one eye which gave a sinister expression to his face. "I suppose you live in the village, boy?" he said. "Yes, sir." "Then perhaps you can direct me to the house of Renwick Bates." "Squire Bates?" "Is that what you call him?" asked the stranger, with an amused smile. "Yes, sir." "Do you know him?" "Yes, sir. I will conduct you to his house, if you wish." "Thank you; I wish you would." Dean had to go out of his way a short distance, but, being of an obliging disposition, he did so willingly. "That is the house, sir." "Thank you; I haven't any change, or I would pay you for your trouble." "It is quite unnecessary," said Dean, hastily. "I don't care for any pay." "Well, thank you, then." "I wonder who that is," thought Dean. "I don't like his looks much, and I wish he hadn't offered me pay for guiding him. He doesn't seem to have been here before." As the stranger turned into the front yard, he saw Brandon, sitting on the bank, whistling. "I don't need to ask whose son you are," said the stranger, smiling. "Why not?" demanded Brandon, haughtily. "Those teeth are unmistakable, my young friend." "Do you mean to insult me? Who are you, any way?" asked Brandon, imperiously. "A friend of your father's who won't stand any impudence!" said the stranger, sharply. "Go into the house and tell him that Peter Kirby wishes to see him." Cowed by the stranger's manner, Brandon sulkily obeyed. CHAPTER XIII. PETER KIRBY. If Brandon had supposed the stranger would prove an unwelcome visitor to his father, he would have been undeceived if he could have been present at the interview between them. "What, Kirby!" said the squire, as the new arrival entered his study. "Yes, it is I, captain," answered Peter Kirby, sinking into an arm-chair. "You seem comfortably fixed here." "Yes; I have tried to make myself comfortable."