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My father got down at the door and carried the girl up the steps and between the plaster pillars into the house. There was a hall paneled in white wood and with mahogany doors. He opened one of these doors and went in. The room he entered had been splendid in some ancient time. It was big; the pieces in it were exquisite; great mirrors and old portraits were on the wall.

A man sitting behind a table got up when my father entered. Four tallow candles, in ancient silver sticks, were on the table, and some sheets with figured accounts.

The man who got up was like some strange old child. He wore a number of little capes to hide his humped back, and his body, one thought, under his clothes was strapped together. He got on his feet nimbly like a spider, and they heard the click of a pistol lock as he whipped the weapon out of an open drawer, as though it were a habit thus always to keep a weapon at his hand to make him equal in stature with other men. Then he saw who it was and the double-barreled pistol slipped out of sight. He was startled and apprehensive, but he was not in fear.

He stood motionless behind the table, his head up, his eyes hard, his thin mouth closed like a trap and his long, dead black hair hanging on each side of his lank face over the huge, malformed ears. The man stood thus, unmoving, silent, with his twisted ironical smile, while my father put the girl into a chair and stood up behind it.

“Dillworth,” said my father, “what do you mean by turning this child out of the house?”

The man looked steadily at the two persons before him.

“Pendleton,” he said, and he spoke precisely, “I do not recognize the right of you, or any other man, to call my acts into account; however” – and he made a curious gesture with his extended hands “not at your command, but at my pleasure, I will tell you.

“This young woman had some estate from her mother at that lady’s death. As her guardian I invested it by permission of the court’s decree.” He paused. “When the Maxwell lands were sold before the courthouse I bid them in for my ward. The judge confirmed this use of the guardian funds. It was done upon advice of counsel and within the letter of the law. Now it appears that Maxwell had only a life interest in these lands; Maxwell is dead, and one who has purchased the interest of his heirs sues in the courts for this estate.

“This new claimant will recover; since one who buys at a judicial sale, I find, buys under the doctrine of caveat emptor – that is to say, at his peril. He takes his chance upon the title. The court does not insure it. If it is defective he loses both the money and the lands. And so,” he added, “my ward will have no income to support her, and I decline to assume that burden.”

My father looked the hunchback in the face. “Who is the man bringing this suit at law?”

“A Mr. Henderson, I believe,” replied Dillworth, “from Maryland.”

“Do you know him?” said my father.

“I never heard of him,” replied the hunchback.

The girl, huddled in the chair, interrupted. “I have seen letters,” she said, “come in here with this man’s return address at Baltimore written on the envelope.”

The hunchback made an irrelevant gesture. “The man wrote – to inquire if I would buy his title. I declined.” Then he turned to my father. “Pendleton,” he said, “you know about this matter. You know that every step I took was legal. And with pains and care how I got an order out of chancery to make this purchase, and how careful I was to have this guardianship investment confirmed by the court. No affair was ever done so exactly within the law.”