“Candid, certainly,” grumbled out Mr. Jesse Andrews; “but an odd sort of good news!”

“His deeds are kinder than his words.  He will allow, till Archibald attains his majority—­Let me see—­how old is that boy of yours now?”

“Ten.  He was two years old when his godfather went to India.”

“Well, then, you will receive two hundred pounds per annum, payable half-yearly, in advance, for the next ten years—­that is, of course, if your son lives—­in order to enable you to bring him up, and educate him properly.  After that period has elapsed, your cousin intimates that he will place the young man advantageously, and I do not doubt will do something for you, should you not by that time have conquered a fair position for yourself.”

“Is that all?” said Mr. Andrews.

“All!  Why, what did you expect?”

“Two or three thousand pounds to set me afloat again.  I know of a safe speculation, that with, say three thousand pounds capital, would realize a handsome fortune in no time.”

Mr. Jesse Andrews, I may observe, was one of that numerous class of persons who are always on the threshold of realizing millions—­the only and constant obstacle being the want of a sufficient “capital.”

I condoled with him upon his disappointment; but as words, however civil, avail little in the way of “capital,” Mr. Jesse Andrews, having pocketed the first half-yearly installment of the annuity, made his exit in by no means a gracious or grateful frame of mind.

Two other half-yearly payments were duly paid him.  When he handed me the receipt on the last occasion, he said, in a sort of off-hand, careless way, “I suppose, if Archy were to die, these payments would cease?”

“Perhaps not,” I replied unthinkingly.  “At all events, not, I should say, till you and your wife were in some way provided for.  But your son is not ill?” I added.

“No, no; not at present,” replied Andrews, coloring, and with a confusion of manner which surprised me not a little.  It flashed across my mind that the boy was dead, and that Andrews, in order not to risk the withdrawal or suspension of the annuity, had concealed the fact from us.

“Let me see,” I resumed, “we have your present address—­Norton Folgate, I think?”

“Yes, certainly you have.”

“I shall very likely call in a day or two to see Mrs. Andrew! and your son.”

The man smiled in a reassured, half-sardonic manner.  “Do,” he answered.  “Archy is alive, and very well, thank God!”

This confidence dispelled the suspicion I had momentarily entertained, and five or six weeks passed away, during which Andrews and his affairs were almost as entirely absent from my thoughts as if no such man existed.