on takes that temperament, softened
by his mother. He ought to have a guardian."

"He has one," replied my father.

"A guardian!" repeated Lewis. "What court has appointed a guardian for
young Marshall?"

"A court," replied my father, "that does not sit under the authority of
Virginia. The helpless, Lewis, in their youth and inexperience, are not
wholly given over to the spoiler."

The boy they talked about was very young--under twenty, one would say.
He was blue-eyed and fair-haired, with thin, delicate features, which
showed good blood long inbred to the loss of vigor. He had the fine,
open, generous face of one who takes the world as in a fairy story. But
now there was care and anxiety in it, and a furtive shadow, as though
the lad's dream of life had got some rude awakening.

At this moment the door behind my father and Lewis was thrown violently
open, and a man entered. He was a person with the manner of a barrister,
precise and dapper; he had a long, pink face, pale eyes, and a
close-cropped beard that brought out the hard lines of his mouth. He
bustled to the table, put down a sort of portfolio that held an inkpot,
a writing-pad and pens, and drew up a chair like one about to take the
minutes of a meeting. And all the while he apologized for his delay.
He had important letters to get off in the post, and to make sure, had
carried them to the tavern himself.

"And now, sirs, let us get about this business," he finished, like one
who calls his assistants to a labor:

My father turned about and looked at the man.

"Is your name Gosford?" he said in his cold, level voice.

"It is, sir," replied the Englishman, "--Anthony Gosford."

"Well, Mr. Anthony Gosford," replied my father, "kindly close the door
that you have opened."

Lewis plucked out his snuffbox and trumpeted in his many-colored
handkerchief to hide his laughter.

The Englishman, thrown off his patronizing manner, hesitated, closed the
door as he was bidden--and could not regain his fine air.

"Now, Mr. Gosford," my father went on, "why was this room violated as we
see it?"

"It was searched for Peyton Marshall's will, sir," replied the man.

"How did you know that Marshall had a will?" said my father.

"I saw him write it," returned the Englishman, "here in this very room,
on the eighteenth day of October, 1854."

"That was two years ago," said my father. "Was the will here at
Marshall's death?"

"It was. He told me on his deathbed."