What can he have to say to
your father?"
"I don't know, Charlie. I don't know anything about it. I do think
you ought to know."
"Yes, I think it is a good thing that I should know," Charlie
agreed thoughtfully. "I daresay it is all right, but, at any rate,
I am glad you told me."
"You won't tell your father?" she asked eagerly. "Because, if you
were to speak of it--"
"I shall not tell him. You need not be afraid that what you have
told me will come out. It is curious, and that is all, and I will
look after the fellow a bit. Don't think anything more about it. It
is just the sort of thing it is well to know, but I expect there is
no harm in it, one way or the other. Of course, he must have known
your father before he came to us, and may have business of some
sort with him. He may have a brother, or some other relation, who
wants to take one of your father's farms. Indeed, there are a
hundred things he might want to see him about. But still, I am glad
you have told me."
In his own mind, Charlie thought much more seriously of it than he
pretended. He knew that, at present, his father was engaged heart
and soul in a projected Jacobite rising. He knew that John Dormay
was a bitter Whig. He believed that he had a grudge against his
father, and the general opinion of him was that he was wholly
unscrupulous.
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