Somewhere about an hour before this, young Anthony Castlemaine, after a late breakfast a la fourchette, had turned out of the Dolphin Inn to walk to Stilborough. Repulsed by his Uncle James on the previous day, and not exactly seeing what his course should be, he had come to the resolution of laying his case before his other uncle, the banker. Making enquiries of John Bent as to the position of the banker's residence, he left the inn. Halting for a few seconds to gaze across beyond the beach, for he thought the sea the most beautiful object in nature and believed he should never tire of looking at it, he went on up the hill, past the church, and was fairly on his road to Stilborough. It was a lonely road enough, never a dwelling to be seen all the way, save a farm homestead or two lying away amid their buildings; but Anthony Castlemaine walked slowly, taking in all the points and features of his native land, that were so strange to his foreign eye. He stood to read the milestones; he leaned on the fences; he admired the tall fine trees, leafless though they were; he critically surveyed the two or three carts and waggons that passed. The sky was blue, the sun bright, he enjoyed the walk and did not hurry himself: but nevertheless he at length reached Stilborough, and found out the house of the banker. He rang at the private door. The servant who opened it saw a young man dressed in a rather uncommon kind of overcoat, faced with fur. The face was that of a stranger; but the servant fancied it was a face he had seen before. "Is my uncle Peter at home?" "Sir!" returned the servant, staring at him. For the only nephew the banker possessed, so far as he knew, was the son of the Master of Greylands. "What name did you please to ask for, sir?" "Mr. Peter Castlemaine. This is his residence I am told." "Yes, sir, it is." "Can I see him? Is he at home?" "He is at home, in his private room, sir; I fancy he is busy. I'll ask if you can see him. What name shall I say, sir?" "You can take my card in. And please say to your master that if he is busy, I can wait." The man glanced at the card as he knocked at the door of the private room, and read the name: "Anthony Castlemaine." "It must be a nephew from over the sea," he shrewdly thought: "he looks foreign. Perhaps a son of that lost Basil." We have seen that Thomas Hill took in the card and the message to his master. He came back, saying the gentleman was to wait; Mr. Peter Castlemaine would see him in a quarter of an hour. So the servant, beguiled by the family name, thought he should do right to conduct the stranger upstairs to the presence of Miss Castlemaine, and said so, while helping him to take off his overcoat. "Shall I say any name, sir?" asked the man, as he laid his hand on the handle of the drawing-room door. "Mr. Anthony Castlemaine."