"Tinman, I want you." He turned to his brother, and spoke insolently enough. "That's the last word I have to say about the matter; I can't do anything for you at the moment. You shall have your money all in good time, but you mustn't be so deuced sudden about it. Where are you staying? I didn't know you were down here at all." "I'm staying at the _George_," said the boy. "But I tell you, you must let me have some money to go on with; I'm nearly penniless. And, after all, Murray, it isn't as if it were your money; you're only holding it for me." "I know that; I don't need reminding of my responsibilities," retorted the other. "I can't talk about it now," he added, getting up as though to put an end to the conversation. "Come up here to-night--dine here, if you like--and I'll tell you what I'm prepared to do. I can't say more than that. Will you come?" The boy's face had flushed darkly red; there was a pleased look in his eyes. "Of course I'll come, Murray--if Mr. Savell will have me," he replied eagerly. Murray Olivant laughed. "Oh, it's nothing to do with Mr. Savell; I do as I like in this house. Dinner at eight; we'll talk business afterwards. Now, Tinman, just come and attend to me, will you?" He strode away up the stairs, and I meekly followed him; it did not seem at all necessary that he should be announced in that house as having arrived. He curtly told me to unpack his things; cursed me a little because I had forgotten that important duty before. While I unstrapped the luggage, and knelt beside it to take the things out, he seated himself in an easy-chair, and watched me, and asked questions. He seemed to be in a good temper, and inclined to be indulgent with me. "Well, my faithful one, and how do you like coming back among the ghosts?" he asked. Then, as I glanced up at him with what I suppose was a scared look in my eyes, he went on gaily: "There--there--you needn't look so frightened; I won't give the game away. But tell me--what do you think of the place--and the people?--how do you like it all?" "I have not yet had time to notice anything," I said, without looking up. "Nonsense; you can't fool me in that fashion. You've been keenly watching everything--eager to find out all you can. What of Savell?" "He seems much broken and changed," I replied reluctantly. "Bah!--he's a fool--and a whining fool at that," he exclaimed violently. "He's no good to himself or any one else; he muddles himself with drink night after night; one of these days he'll go off suddenly--snuffed out like a candle in a draught. What of the others?" "The--others?" I looked up at him stupidly. "Well, the _other_, if you like," he retorted. "The child--Barbara. What of her?" "She is very beautiful--and very sweet--and kind," I faltered, bending low over my work.