The answer was not of a sort to allay my suspicions.

“Then he appears to be a landowner?” said I.

“’Ods!  Blest if I know what he is,” says Mr. Claude.  “He may be anything, an impostor or a high-mightiness.  But he’s something to strike the eye and hold it, for all his Quaker clothes.  He is swarth and thickset, and some five feet eight inches—­full six inches under your own height.  And he comes asking for you as if you owned the town between you.  ‘Send a fellow to Marlboro’ Street for Mr. Richard Carvel, my good host!’ says he, with a snap of his fingers.  And when I tell him the news of you, he is prodigiously affected, and cries—­but here’s my gentleman now!”

I jerked my head around.  Coming down the steps I beheld my old friend and benefactor, Captain John Paul!

“Ahoy, ahoy!” cries he.  “Now Heaven be praised, I have found you at last.”

Out of the saddle I leaped, and straight into his arms.

“Hold, hold, Richard!” he gasped.  “My ribs, man!  Leave me some breath that I may tell you how glad I am to see you.”

“Mr. Jones!” I said, holding him out, “now where the devil got you that?”

“Why, I am become a gentleman since I saw you,” he answered, smiling.  “My poor brother left me his estate in Virginia.  And a gentleman must have three names at the least.”

I dropped his shoulders and shook with laughter.

“But Jones!” I cried. “’Ad’s heart! could you go no higher?  Has your imagination left you, captain?”

“Republican simplicity, sir,” says he, looking a trifle hurt.  But I laughed the more.

“Well, you have contrived to mix oil and vinegar,” said I.  “A landed gentleman and republican simplicity.  I’ll warrant you wear silk-knit under that gray homespun, and have a cameo in your pocket.”

He shook his head, looking up at me with affection.

“You might have guessed better,” he answered.  “All of quality I have about me are an enamelled repeater and a gold brooch.”

This made me suddenly grave, for McAndrews’s words had been ringing in my ears ever since he had spoken them.  I hitched my arm into the captain’s and pulled him toward the Coffee House door.

“Come,” I said, “you have not dined, and neither have I. We shall be merry to-day, and you shall have some of the best Madeira in the colonies.”  I commanded a room, that we might have privacy.  As he took his seat opposite me I marked that he had grown heavier and more browned.  But his eye had the same unfathomable mystery in it as of yore.  And first I upbraided him for not having writ me.

“I took you for one who glories in correspondence, captain,” said I; “and I did not think you could be so unfaithful.  I directed twice to you in Mr. Orchardson’s care.”

“Orchardson died before I had made one voyage,” he replied, “and the Betsy changed owners.  But I did not forget you, Richard, and was resolved but now not to leave Maryland until I had seen you.  But I burn to hear of you,” he added.  “I have had an inkling of your story from the landlord.  So your grandfather is dead, and that blastie, your uncle, of whom you told me on the John, is in possession.”