But when three months had elapsed he began to breathe more freely, and to hope that the alarm had been a false one. The property was indeed his own--he was a rich man, and now for the first time he felt in sufficient spirits to look into his affairs and review his possessions. A considerable share of these consisted in houses, which his uncle had seized opportunities of purchasing on advantageous terms; and as the value of some had increased, whilst that of others was diminishing for want of repair, he employed a surveyor to examine and pronounce on their condition. "Among the rest," said he, "there is a small house in Thomas Street, No. 7. My uncle allowed an old clerk of his to inhabit it, rent free; but he must turn out. I gave them notice three months ago; but they've not taken it. Root them up, will you? and get the house cleaned down and whitewashed for some other tenant." Having put these matters in train, Mr. Jonas resolved, while his own residence was set in order, to make a journey to London, and enjoy the gratification of presenting himself to his family in the character of a rich man; and so fascinating did he find the pleasures of wealth and independence, that nearly four months had elapsed since his departure before he summoned Mr. Reynolds to give an account of his proceedings. "So," said he, after they had run through the most important items--"so you have found a tenant for the house in Thomas Street? Had you much trouble in getting rid of the Lanes?" "They're in it still," answered Mr. Reynolds. "The man that has taken it has married Lane's daughter." "What is he?" inquired Jonas. "An officer's servant--a soldier in the regiment that is quartered in the citadel." "Oh, I've seen the man--a good-looking young fellow. But how is he to pay the rent?" "He says he has saved money, and he has set her up in a shop. However, I have taken care to secure the first quarter; there's the receipt for it." "That is all right," said Mr. Jonas, who was in a very complacent humor, for fortune seemed quite on his side at present. "How," said he, suddenly changing color as he glanced his eye over the slip of paper; "how! Tracy Walkingham!" "Yes; an odd name enough for a private soldier, isn't it?" "Tracy Walkingham!" he repeated. "Why how came he to know the Lanes? Where does he come from?" "I know nothing of him, except that he is in the barracks. But I can inquire, and find out his history and genealogy if you wish it," replied Mr. Reynolds.