Mr. Battishill looked at Herring. Herring was disconcerted. The surprise and indignation caused by the intrusion and insolence of the young man had prevented him from recollecting to fold up and put away the document. ’Writing to one trustee,’ said young Tramplara, taking up the letter, ’and in duty bound about to write to the other when interrupted by me. I will save you the trouble. But how came this into your hands? Will you answer me that?’ ’I have already told you, Mr. Sampson, that there has been a death in the house. An unfortunate and melancholy accident took place last Friday, a carriage was upset near this house, and a strange gentleman killed. He was brought here, and has been buried to-day.’ ’That was Mr. James Strange?’ ’It was. He was a gentleman who, according to his daughter’s account, had lived many years in Brazil as a diamond merchant.’ ’I know that. He was my father’s first cousin; consequently he was—blowed if I know—but cousin of some sort, and about the only relative on that side I had. What did he die worth?’ ’That will be for your father to ascertain,’ said Herring. ’It seems to me a most extraordinary thing to find a will of one not even remotely belonging to you lying on your table where it might be torn to light pipes with.’ ’The reason is very simple,’ said Herring. ’Mr. Battishill and I knew nothing about Mr. Strange, and his daughter seemed to be equally in the dark about his relatives.’ ’What, is that pretty girl in the garden along of Miss Cicely his daughter?’ ’That young lady is his daughter. Mr. Battishill and I examined the papers of the deceased. Most were in Portuguese, which we were unable to read. From the will we gathered who were the trustees and guardians of the lady. That was what we sought, and that was what we have ascertained.’ ’Well, this is a rise,’ said young Tramplara. ’This is like going out after a partridge and starting a pheasant. But never mind. I keep my game in my eye. You will have to unburthen your pockets, Battishill, old boy!’ ’Has the sea broken in on Polpluggan?’ asked Mr. Battishill dolefully. He knew well enough that the visit did not relate to Polpluggan, but he tried to put off the worst. ’Polpluggan,’ said the young man, with a touch of melancholy in his voice; ’Polpluggan is swamped outright. The mighty Atlantic has got on top of him, and is pouring himself down his throat. There ain’t no more pumping to be done there, more’s the pity.’ ’No more calls, then, on the shareholders?’ ’No.’ ’Nor dividends either?’