One afternoon, at the close of business, he was a little astonished to receive a message from Mr. Dingwall, the deputy manager, that he wished to see him in his private office. He was still more astonished when Mr. Dingwall, after offering him a chair, stood up with his hands under his coat tails before the fireplace, and, with a hesitancy half reserved, half courteous, but wholly English, said,-- “I--er--would be glad, Mr. Trent, if you would--er--give me the pleasure of your company at dinner to-morrow.” Randolph, still amazed, stammered his acceptance. “There will be--er--a young lady in whom you were--er--interested some time ago. Er--Miss Avondale.” Randolph, feeling he was coloring, and uncertain whether he should speak of having met her since, contented himself with expressing his delight. “In fact,” continued Mr. Dingwall, clearing his throat as if he were also clearing his conscience of a tremendous secret, “she--er--mentioned your name. There is Sir William Dornton coming also. Sir William has recently succeeded his elder brother, who--er--it seems, was the gentleman you were inquiring about when you first came here, and who, it is now ascertained, was drowned in the bay a few months ago. In fact--er--it is probable that you were the last one who saw him alive. I thought I would tell you,” continued Mr. Dingwall, settling his chin more comfortably in his checked cravat, “in case Sir William should speak of him to you.” Randolph was staggered. The abrupt revelation of his benefactor's name and fate, casually coupled with an invitation to dinner, shocked and confounded him. Perhaps Mr. Dingwall noticed it and misunderstood the cause, for he added in parenthetical explanation: “Yes, the man whose portmanteau you took charge of is dead; but you did your duty, Mr. Trent, in the matter, although the recovery of the portmanteau was unessential to the case.” “Dead,” repeated Randolph, scarcely heeding him. “But is it true? Are they sure?” Mr. Dingwall elevated his eyebrows. “The large property at stake of course rendered the most satisfactory proofs of it necessary. His father had died only a month previous, and of course they were seeking the presumptive heir, the so-called 'Captain John Dornton'--your man--when they made the discovery of his death.” Randolph thought of the strange body at the wharf, of the coroner's vague verdict, and was unconvinced. “But,” he said impulsively, “there was a child.” He checked himself as he remembered this was one of Miss Avondale's confidences to him. “Ah--Miss Avondale has spoken of a child?” said Mr. Dingwall dryly. “I saw her with one which she said was Captain Dornton's, which had been left in her care after the death of his wife,” said Randolph in hurried explanation. “John Dornton had no WIFE,” said Mr. Dingwall severely. “The boy is a natural son. Captain John lived a wild, rough, and--er--an eccentric life.”