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But Forrest did not remain any appreciable time in the cheerful living-room. A desire to explain and have it all over with was upon him; and he passed, rapidly now, from room to room, until in a far corner of the house he entered a writing-room furnished in severe simplicity with dark and dully-shining rosewood. This room was of an older fashion than any he had yet entered, and he guessed that it had been the Signer’s workshop and had been preserved by his descendants without change. A pair of flintlock pistols, glinting silver, lay upon the desk; quill pens stood in a silver cup full of shot; a cramped map, drawn and colored by hand and yellow with age, hung above the mantel and purported, in bold printing with flourishes, to be The Proposed Route for the Erie Canal. Portraits of General Greene and Thomas Jefferson, by Stuart, also hung upon the walls. And there stood upon an octagonal table a bowl of roses.

There was a gentleman in the embrasure of a window, smoking a cigar and looking out. But at the sound of Forrest’s step he turned an alert, close-cropped, gray head and stepped out of the embrasure.

“Mr. Ballin?” said Forrest.

“I am Mr. Ballin.” His eyes perused the stranger with astonishing speed and deftness, without seeming to do so.

“It was the toss of a coin that decided me to come,” said Forrest. “I have asked your butler to lay a place for me at luncheon.”

So much assumption on the part of a stranger has a cheeky look in the printing. Yet Forrest’s tone and manner far more resembled those of old friendship and intimacy than impertinence.

“Have I,” said Ballin, smiling a little doubtfully, “ever had the pleasure of meeting you before? I have a poor memory for faces. But it seems to me that I should not have forgotten yours.”

“You never saw me but the one time,” said Forrest. “That was many years ago, and you would not remember. You were a–little wild that night. You sat against me at a game of faro. But even if you had been yourself–I have changed very much. I was at that time, as you were, little more than a boy.”

“Good Lord!” said Ballin, “were you a part of that hectic flush that to myself I only refer to as ‘Sacramento’?”

“You do not look as if it had turned you into a drinking man,” said Forrest.

“It didn’t,” said Ballin, and without seeing any reason for confiding in the stranger he proceeded to do so. “It was nip and tuck for a time,” he said, “and then money came to me, and this old place and responsibilities, and I became, more from force of circumstances than from any inner impulse, a decentish citizen.”

“The money made everything smooth, did it?” said Forrest. “I wonder.”

“You wonder–what?” said Ballin.

“If it could–money alone. I have had it at times–not as you have had it–but in large, ready sums. Yet I think it made very little difference.”

“What have you been doing since–Sacramento?” asked Ballin.

“Up to a month ago,” said Forrest, “I kept on dealing–in different parts of the world–in San Francisco, in London–Cairo–Calcutta. And then the matter which brings me here was brought to my attention.”

“Yes?” said Ballin, a little more coolly.

“When you were in Sacramento,” Forrest went on quietly and evenly as if stating an acknowledged fact, “you did not expect to come into all this. Then your cousin, Ranger Ballin, and his son went down in the City of Pittsburgh; and all this”–he made a sudden, sweeping gesture with one of his long, well-kept hands–“came to you.”

“Yes?” Ballin’s voice still interrogated coolly.

Forrest broke into that naive, boyish smile of his.

“My dear sir,” said he, “I saw a play last winter in which the question is asked, ‘Do you believe in Fairies?’ I ask you, ‘Do you believe in Gypsies?'”

“In what way?” Ballin asked, and he, too, smiled.