We went through an iron gate with the words "The Bungalow" blocked in brass letters between the bars, and walked down a cemented path bordered with boxwood, to a green door opening directly into the house. There was no porch, and the entrance was only a step above the path. We were shown into a musty parlor, which felt damp and cold, although a small fire was burning in the grate. The windows were low and opened upon the garden, but the trees were bare and the flowers dead. There were pictures on the walls, and jars upon the tables and mantel, where bunches of withered grasses were displayed as relics of the summer. The carpet and furniture were old and faded. It did not look like the abode of wealth, and we saw no ground for hope. Observing the dejected look on Torry’s face, I tried to comfort him with the reflection that some of the wealthiest of the English live with the least ostentation. "I know it," he answered looking up. "The man may be worth a million, but I doubt it." There was a cough in the ball, and the sound of some one approaching with a walking stick. In a minute the door was opened, and an old man bent nearly double, and supporting himself with a cane, entered the room. "Two of you! I didn’t expect to see but one," he muttered, hobbling across the carpet without further salute, and then, as he hooked the handle of his stick into the leg of a chair, and pulled it up to the fire for himself, added: "Have seats." "My brother came with me, as we have always lived together," said Torrence, by way of explanation, "although I only sent my individual card, as it is you and I who have corresponded. I hope we find you well, Mr. Wetherbee, and that this damp weather doesn’t disagree with you." Wetherbee grunted, and poked the fire. "Nothing disagrees with me," he said after a minute. "I’ve been hardened to this climate for eighty years. It has done its best to kill me, and failed." Then with a grim smile, he added: "My figure isn’t quite as good as it used to be; but I’m not vain, Mr. Attlebridge; I’m not vain." "I suppose you’ve been a sufferer from rheumatism?" I suggested, by way of talk. Evidently he did not hear me, as he was raking cinders from the bottom of the grate. When he had finished, he said: "Did you come over from America in your air ship?" Torrence laughed. "Not this time, Mr. Wetherbee, but I expect to go back in it," he answered. "Great confidence! Great confidence!" exclaimed Wetherbee; "Well, I’m glad of it; nothing is ever accomplished without it." The old man leaned his head upon his hands, while his elbows rested on his knees. It was impossible for him to sit upright. His hair was white, and his face wrinkled; he looked his age. Certainly he was a different person from what Torrence had expected. "I suppose you have brought a model with you," continued Wetherbee; "you Yankees are so handy with such things." This was evidently intended as a compliment.