“I hope,” said the new-comer, with a smile so pleasant, so ingenuous, so confiding, that all Maskelyne’s ideas of deception—had he had time to recognize them in the moment before a strange, unquestioning acquiescence took complete possession of him—were at once dissipated, “that I do not intrude too greatly on your time.” Won really in spite of himself by the appearance of his visitor, the famous counsellor waved his hand toward a chair. “I suppose,” continued the stranger, with an almost boyish sweetness, as he seated himself, “that Mr. Bevington has already told you why I am here.” Mr. Maskelyne might very well have answered that Mr. Bevington was hardly to be looked to for any information on any subject, but he did not—the wonderful circumstances of the interview had been so driven from his mind by the potent charm of the young man’s personality. “Mr.”—and he paused as if waiting for enlightenment as to the name of the stranger. “I’m in a devil of a scrape,” continued the young man, apparently imagining that the letter had made all necessary explanations, and mentioning the devil as though he was an every-day acquaintance, a pleasant fellow whom he had just left at the door awaiting his return. “Ah!” murmured the lawyer. “I did not wish to see you,” continued the other, his singularly trustful smile breaking again over lip and cheek. “Indeed,” said Maskelyne, his wits and perceptions in most confusing entanglement. “No,” went on the unaccountable visitor. “I supposed that you would give me what the world calls good advice. But I don’t want that. I want to hear something better.” He laughed aloud in such a joyous, cheery fashion that the old lawyer even smiled. “You don’t think I am a good man to come to for bad advice?” he said. “The last in the world. I don’t suppose that you ever did a foolish thing in your life.” “And therefore am perhaps less competent to advise others who have,” replied Maskelyne, half heedlessly, for his thoughts were slowly turning in a new direction. The more he looked the more the eager, spirited face seemed familiar. He had certainly seen the young fellow before, but where? It seemed to him that he could certainly remember in a moment, if he only had time to think. “Mr. Bevington——” “Pardon me,” interrupted Maskelyne, in a significant tone, “you said Mr. Bevington?” “Certainly,” said the stranger, suddenly looking up in evident surprise. “Didn’t he write?” “I have received a letter,” said the old lawyer, cautiously. He was on the point of making some further inquiries, but the impulse came to nothing. The former feeling of acquiescent but expectant apathy again possessed him; indeed, he had never been much in the habit of asking questions. He knew that he often learned more than was suspected even, by letting people talk on in their own way.