"Flatter you? I hardly think I flatter you. I will tell you why I like you, Townsend." He paused. I waited. The old fox kept twisting the stem of his wineglass round and round between his thin white fingers. "I like you, Townsend, because, although you are out of the common run, you are not sufficiently so to be unpleasantly conspicuous. You have what I lack, passion. You are as likely to ascend to the top of the tree as to the top of the gallows. I hardly think I flatter you." "You at least credit me with having aspirations." "I believe, Townsend, that your wealth scarcely exceeds the dreams of avarice--eh?" The remark had so little connection with anything that had gone before, that I think I stared. He favoured me with one of those lightning flashes which are among the tricks of his trade--then you can see what eyes he really has. "I said I wanted to speak to you in confidence." "Precisely. You only flatter me too much." Again that wrinkling of the lips which he, perhaps, intended for a smile. I wondered what the dickens he was at. "You see, Townsend, things reach my ears which do not come to other men. May we take it, Townsend, that you are not a millionaire?" "You may certainly take it, sir, at that." "Pressed, now and then, for ready-money, perhaps." What was he driving at? Was he going to develop into a sixty per cent. and offer me a loan? "I believe that most men are." "Yes--they are." It struck me that there was something about the pause he made which was anything but complimentary. I was beginning to feel like throwing something at him. "You have a brother, Townsend." How did he know that? "Have you seen him lately?" "This afternoon." "So recently? Is he doing well?" "He said he was." "There is nothing clogs a man so much as a brother of a certain kind." "I take care that my brother does not clog me." "I believe, Townsend, that you do." What did he mean by the inflection with which the words were uttered? "You are wondering why I talk to you like this. I will explain." He took a sip from his glass. Then held it up in front of him, connoisseur fashion. "I am something of a curiosity. I have lived my own life. In my way, I have enjoyed it. But I have one thing with which to reproach Providence. He has not bestowed on me a son." He emptied his glass. "Townsend, why don't you drink? I can recommend this port. Drink up, and let me fill the glasses." I let him. "That a son is not always an unmixed blessing I am aware. On the other hand, Dora has been a model child. Still, a daughter can hardly do for a father what a son can. So I still am hoping for a son." What did the old beggar mean? He was still so long that I thought he had forgotten to go on. But I did not feel that it was my cue to break the silence. And at last he condescended to remember. "You have in you the makings of the sort of son that I should like to have." "I? Sir Haselton, did I not say you flattered me?"