When Harry had been in the house about half an hour, and had already eaten his lunch, somewhat sulkily, a message came to him from Miss Scarborough requiring his presence.  He went to her, and was told by her that Mr. Scarborough would now see him.  He was aware that Mr. Scarborough never saw Septimus Jones, and that there was something peculiar in the sending of this message to him.  Why should the man who was supposed to have but a few weeks to live be so anxious to see one who was comparatively a stranger to him?  “I am so glad you have come in before dinner, Mr. Annesley, because my brother is so anxious to see you, and I am afraid you’ll go too early in the morning.”  Then he followed her, and again found Mr. Scarborough on a couch in the same room to which he had been first introduced.

“I’ve had a sharp bout of it since I saw you before,” said the sick man.

“So we heard, sir.”

“There is no saying how many or rather how few bouts of this kind it will take to polish me off.  But I think I am entitled to some little respite now.  The apothecary from Tretton was here this morning, and I believe has done me just as much good as Sir William Brodrick.  His charge will be ten shillings, while Sir William demanded three hundred pounds.  But it would be mean to go out with no one but the Tretton apothecary to look after one.”

“I suppose Sir William’s knowledge has been of some service.”

“His dexterity with his knife has been of more.  So you and Augustus have been quarrelling about Mountjoy?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He says so; and I believe his word on such a subject sooner than yours.  You are likely to quarrel without knowing it, and he is not.  He thinks that you know what has become of Mountjoy.”

“Does he?  Why should he think so, when I told him that I know nothing?  I tell you that I know absolutely nothing.  I am ignorant whether he is dead or alive.”

“He is not dead,” said the father.

“I suppose not; but I know nothing about him.  Why your second son—­”

“You mean my eldest according to law,—­or rather my only son!”

“Why Augustus Scarborough,” continued Harry Annesley, “should take upon himself to suspect that I know aught of his brother I cannot say.  He has some cock-and-bull story about a policeman whom he professes to believe to be ignorant of his own business.  This policeman, he says, is anxious to arrest me.”

“To make you give evidence before a magistrate,” said his father.

“He did not dare to tell me that he suspected me himself.”

“There;—­I knew you had quarrelled.”

“I deny it altogether.  I have not quarrelled with Augustus Scarborough.  He is welcome to his suspicions if he chooses to entertain them.  I should have liked him better if he had not brought me down to Tretton, so as to extract from me whatever he can.  I shall be more guarded in future in speaking of Mountjoy Scarborough; but to you I give my positive assurance, which I do not doubt you will believe, that I know nothing respecting him.”  An honest indignation gleamed in his eyes as he spoke; but still there were the signs of that vacillation about his mouth which Florence had been able to read, but not to interpret.