Then, in his conflicting emotions, he punished himself, after the fashion of youth, by avoiding the beloved one’s presence for several days.  He did this in the belief that it would enable him to make up his mind whether to reveal his real feelings to her, and perhaps there was the more alluring hope that his absence might provoke some manifestations of sentiment on her part.  But she made no sign.  And then came a reaction in his feelings, with a heightened sense of loyalty to his benefactor.  For, freed of any illusion or youthful fancy now, a purely unselfish gratitude to the unknown man filled his heart.  In the lapse of his sentiment he clung the more closely to this one honest romance of his life.

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.”