I almost expected to see Patty come tripping down from the vine-covered porch with her needlework in her hand, and the house seemed strangely empty without her.  Mr. Swain had his negro, Romney, place chairs for us under the apple tree, and bring out pipes and sangaree.  The air was still, and heavy with the flowers’ scent, and the sun was dipping behind the low eaves of the house.  It was so natural to be there that I scarce realized all that had happened since last I saw the back gate in the picket fence.  Alas! little Patty would never more be smuggled through it and over the wall to Marlboro’ Street.  Mr. Swain recalled my thoughts.

“Captain Clapsaddle has asked me to look into this matter of the will, Richard,” he began abruptly.  “Altho’ we thought never to see you again, we have hoped against hope.  I fear you have little chance for your property, my lad.”

I replied that Captain Daniel had so led me to believe, and thanked him for his kindness and his trouble.

“’Twas no trouble,” he replied quickly.  “Indeed, I wish it might have been.  I shall always think of your grandfather with reverence and with sorrow.  He was a noble man, and was a friend to me, in spite of my politics, when other gentlemen of position would not invite me to their houses.  It would be the greatest happiness of my life if I could restore his property to you, where he would have had it go, and deprive that villain, your uncle, of the fruits of his crime.”

“Then there is nothing to be got by contesting the will?” I asked.

He shook his head soberly.

“I fear not at present,” said he, “nor can I with honesty hold out any hope to you, Richard.  Your uncle, by reason of his wealth, is a man of undue influence with the powers of the colony.  Even if he were not so, I doubt greatly whether we should be the gainers.  The will is undoubtedly genuine.  Mr. Carvel thought you dead, and we cannot prove undue influence by Grafton unless we also prove that it was he who caused your abduction.  Do you think you can prove that?”

“There is one witness,” I exclaimed, “who overheard my uncle and Mr. Allen talking of South River and Griggs, the master of the slaver, in the stables at Carvel Hall.”

“And who is that?” demanded Mr. Swain, with more excitement than I believed him capable of.

“Old Harvey.”

Your grandfather’s coachman?  Alas, he died the day after Mr. Carvel, and was buried the same afternoon.  Have you spoken of this?”

“Not to a soul,” said I.

“Then I would not.  You will have to be very careful and say nothing, Richard.  Let me hear what other reasons you have for believing that your uncle tried to do away with you.”

I told him, lucidly as possible, everything I have related in these pages, and the admission of Griggs.  He listened intently, shaking his head now and then, but not a word out of him.