I halted by the Fleet Market, nor could I resist the desire to go into St. Paul’s, to feel like a pebble in a bell under its mighty dome; and it lacked but half an hour of noon when I had come out at the Poultry and finished gaping at the Mansion House.  I missed Threadneedle Street and went down Cornhill, in my ignorance mistaking the Royal Exchange, with its long piazza and high tower, for the coffeehouse I sought:  in the great hall I begged a gentleman to direct me to Mr. Dix, if he knew such a person.  He shrugged his shoulders, which mystified me somewhat, but answered with a ready good-nature that he was likely to be found at that time at Tom’s Coffee House, in Birchin Lane near by, whither I went with him.  He climbed the stairs ahead of me and directed me, puffing, to the news room, which I found filled with men, some writing, some talking eagerly, and others turning over newspapers.  The servant there looked me over with no great favour, but on telling him my business he went off, and returned with a young man of a pink and white complexion, in a green riding-frock, leather breeches, and top boots, who said: 

“Well, my man, I am Mr. Dix.”

There was a look about him, added to his tone and manner, set me strong against him.  I knew his father had not been of this stamp.

“And I am Mr. Richard Carvel, grandson to Mr. Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall, in Maryland,” I replied, much in the same way.

He thrust his hands into his breeches and stared very hard.

“You?” he said finally, with something very near a laugh.

“Sir, a gentleman’s word usually suffices!” I cried.

He changed his tone a little.

“Your pardon, Mr. Carvel,” he said, “but we men of business have need to be careful.  Let us sit, and I will examine your letters.  Your determination must have been suddenly taken,” he added, “for I have nothing from Mr. Carvel on the subject of your coming.”

“Letters!  You have heard nothing!” I gasped, and there stopped short and clinched the table.  “Has not my grandfather written of my disappearance?”

Immediately his expression went back to the one he had met me with.  “Pardon me,” he said again.

I composed myself as best I could in the face of his incredulity, swallowing with an effort the aversion I felt to giving him my story.

“I think it strange he has not informed you,” I said; “I was kidnapped near Annapolis last Christmas-time, and put on board of a slaver, from which I was rescued by great good fortune, and brought to Scotland.  And I have but just made my way to London.”

“The thing is not likely, Mr.—­, Mr.—­,” he said, drumming impatiently on the board.

Then I lost control of myself.

“As sure as I am heir to Carvel Hall, Mr. Dix,” I cried, rising, “you shall pay for your insolence by forfeiting your agency!”

Now the roan was a natural coward, with a sneer for some and a smirk for others.  He went to the smirk.