“He must have said something very profound, then,” returned Allan Roscoe, with light raillery.

“Indeed, Uncle Allan, it is no laughing matter,” said Hector, earnestly.

“Then let me hear what it is.”

“He intimates that he knows something that would let down my pride a peg or two.  He hints that I am not the heir of Castle Roscoe.”

The boy used the term by which the house was usually known.

Allan Roscoe knit his brow in pretended vexation.

“Inconsiderate boy!” he murmured.  “Why need he say this?”

“But,” said Hector, startled, “is it true?”

“My boy,” said his uncle, with simulated feeling, “my son has spoken to you of a secret which I would willingly keep from you if I could.  Yet, perhaps, it is as well that you should be told now.”

“Told what?” exclaimed Hector, quite at sea.

“Can you bear to hear, Hector, that it is indeed true?  You are not the owner of this estate.”

“Who is then?” ejaculated the astonished boy.

“I am; and Guy after me.”

“What!  Did my father leave the estate away from me?  I thought he did not leave a will?”

“Nor did he.”

“Then how can anyone else except his son inherit?”

“Your question is a natural one.  If you were his son you would inherit under the law.”

“If I were his son!” repeated Hector, slowly, his head swimming.  “What do you mean by that?  Of course I am your brother’s son.”

“It is very painful for me to tell, Hector.  It will be distressing for you to hear.  No tie of blood connects you with the late owner of Castle Roscoe.”

“I don’t believe you, Uncle Allan,” said Hector, bluntly.

“Of course, therefore, I am not your uncle,” added Allan Roscoe, dryly.

“I beg your pardon; I should have said Mr. Allan Roscoe,” said Hector, bowing proudly, for his heart was sore, and he was deeply indignant with the man who sat, smooth and sleek, in his father’s chair, harrowing up his feelings without himself being ruffled.

“That is immaterial.  Call me uncle, if you like, since the truth is understood.  But I must explain.”

“I would like to know what is your authority for so surprising a statement, Mr. Roscoe.  You cannot expect me to believe that I have been deceived all my life.”

“I make the statement on your father’s authority—­I should say, on my brother’s authority.”

“Can you prove it, Mr. Roscoe?”

“I can.  I will presently put into your hands a letter, written me by my brother some months since, which explains the whole matter.  To save you suspense, however, I will recapitulate.  Where were you born?”

“In California.”

“That is probably true.  It was there that my brother found you.”

“Found me?”