“No--I think--In fact, a lot of money was spent on detectives by the old lord trying to clear his favorite and lift the stain from the family name; but to no purpose. Lord George cannot live many months longer, he is eighty-five now, but he thinks that Captain Henry may have married in America, and if so, he wants his children to inherit. For some reason he has taken a strong dislike to his nephew, who, by the way, is living in the southern part of the United States. If you go, your mission must remain a profound secret, for if he lives, Captain Henry is yet amenable to the law which condemned him. Here--read these papers; they will throw more light on the subject, and while doing that make up your mind whether or not you will go to America and institute a search for the missing man.” So Maxwell started for America. “Heavens, what a flash!” exclaimed the young man, aroused from the reverie into which he had fallen. “Ah, what is that yonder?” Before him was a large wooden house with outlying buildings standing back from the road. “Whoever dwells there will not refuse me shelter on such a night. I will try my luck.” Urging his tired horse forward, in a moment he stood before the large rambling piazza which embraced the entire front of the establishment. From the back of the house came the barking of dogs, and as he sprang to the ground the outer door swung open, shedding forth a stream of light and disclosing a large, gray-bearded man with a good-natured face. Around the corner of the house from the direction of the out-buildings, came quickly a powerful negro. “Well, stranger, you’ve took a wet night fer a hossback ride,” said the man on the piazza. “I find it so,” replied Warren with a smile. “May I have shelter here until morning?” “Shelter!” exclaimed the man with brusque frankness, “that’s what the Grand Island Hotel hangs out a shingle fer. Western or furrin’s welcome here. I take it from your voice you don’t belong to these parts. Come in, and ’Tavius will take yer hoss. ’Tavius! Oh, ’Tavius! Hyar! Take the gentleman’s hoss. Unstrap them saddle-bags and hand ’em hyar fus’.” ’Tavius did as he was bidden, and Warren stepped into a room which served for office, smoking-room and bar. He followed his host through the room into a long corridor and up a flight of stairs into a spacious apartment neatly though primitively furnished. Having deposited the saddle-bags, the host turned to leave the room, pausing a moment to say: “Well, mister, my name’s Ebenezer Maybee, an’ I’m proprietor of this hyar hotel. What may yer name be?” Warren handed him a visiting card which he scanned closely by the light of the tallow candle. “‘Warren Maxwell, England.’ Um, um, I s’pose you’re an ’ristocrat. Where bound? Canidy?” “No,” replied Warren, “just travelling for pleasure.” “Oh, I see. Rich. Well, Mr. Maxwell, yer supper’ll be ’bilin on the table inside a half-hour: Fried chicken, johnny cake and coffee.”