“Father'll come and sit with me in my room,” she said. Hutchinson looked grumpy. He did not intend to leave the field clear and the stew to its fate if he could help it. He gave Ann a protesting frown. “I dare say Mr. Palford doesn't mind us,” he said. “We're not strangers.” “Not in the least,” Palford protested. “Certainly not. If you are old friends, you may be able to assist us.” “Well, I don't know about that,” Hutchinson answered, “We've not known him long, but we know him pretty well. You come from London, don't you?” “Yes. From Lincoln's Inn Fields.” “Law?” grunted Hutchinson. “Yes. Of the firm of Palford & Grimby.” Hutchinson moved in his chair involuntarily. There was stimulation to curiosity in this. This chap was a regular top sawyer--clothes, way of pronouncing his words, manners, everything. No mistaking him--old family solicitor sort of chap. What on earth could he have to say to Tembarom? Tembarom himself had sat down and could not be said to look at his ease. “I do not intrude without the excuse of serious business,” Palford explained to him. “A great deal of careful research and inquiry has finally led me here. I am compelled to believe I have followed the right clue, but I must ask you a few questions. Your name is not really Tembarom, is it?” Hutchinson looked at Tembarom sharply. “Not Tembarom? What does he mean, lad?” Tembarom's grin was at once boyish and ashamed. “Well, it is in one way,” he answered, “and it isn't in another. The fellows at school got into the way of calling me that way,--to save time, I guess,--and I got to like it. They'd have guyed my real name. Most of them never knew it. I can't see why any one ever called a child by such a fool name, anyhow.” “What was it exactly?” Tembarom looked almost sheepish. “It sounds like a thing in a novel. It was Temple Temple Barholm. Two Temples, by gee! As if one wasn't enough!” Joseph Hutchinson dropped his paper and almost started from his chair. His red face suddenly became so much redder that he looked a trifle apoplectic. “Temple Barholm does tha say?” he cried out. Mr. Palford raised his hand and checked him, but with a suggestion of stiff apology. “If you will kindly allow me. Did you ever hear your father refer to a place called Temple Barholm?” he inquired. Tembarom reflected as though sending his thoughts backward into a pretty thoroughly forgotten and ignored past. There had been no reason connected with filial affection which should have caused him to recall memories of his father. They had not liked each other. He had known that he had been resented and looked down upon as a characteristically American product. His father had more than once said he was a “common American lad,” and he had known he was.