I had always thought Swain a handsome, thoroughbred-looking fellow;
and I saw that, in the past few months, he had grown more
thoroughbred-looking than ever. His face was thinner than when he had
first gone to work for us, there was a new line between his eyebrows,
and the set of his lips told of battles fought and won. A year ago, it
had seemed natural to call him Freddie, but no one would think of
doing so now. His father's creditors had not attempted to take from
him his wardrobe--a costly and extensive one--so that he was dressed
as carefully, if not quite as fashionably, as ever, in a way that
suggested a young millionaire, rather than a fifteen-dollar-a-week
clerk. At this moment, his face was clouded, and he drummed the arm of
his chair with nervous fingers. Then he shifted uneasily under my
gaze, which was, perhaps, more earnest than I realised.

"You said you had a message for me, sir," he reminded me.

"Yes," I said. "Have you ever been out this way before?"

"Yes, I have been out this way a number of times."

"You know this place, then?"

"I have heard it mentioned, but I have never been here before."

"Do you know whose place that is next door to us?"

"Yes," and his voice sank to a lower key. "It belongs to Worthington
Vaughan."

"And you know him?"