"
For a moment the two men looked at each other--Jackson with a gleam of
hatred in his eyes, while Bransome had a curiously frightened expression
on his face, which blanched slightly. But he quickly resumed his
composure and peremptory way, and said, "Show me a room; I must get
these wet things off me."
As, however, he addressed himself this time to me rather than to
Jackson,--who, indeed, regarded him no longer, but stood with the letter
loose in his hand, looking at the floor of the room, as if in deep
meditation,--I showed him into my own room, where I ordered his trunks
to be brought. These, of course, were wet; but he found some things in
the middle of them that were not more than slightly damp, and with the
help of a pair of old canvas trousers of mine he managed to make his
appearance at dinner-time.
Jackson was not at the meal. He had left the house shortly after his
interview with the new agent, and had, I fancied, gone on one of his
solitary rambles. At any rate he did not return until late that night.
I thought Mr. Bransome seemed to be somewhat relieved when he saw
that the old man was not coming; and he became more affable than I had
expected him to be, and relinquished his arrogant style altogether when
he began to question me about Jackson--who he was? what had he been?
how long he had lived on the coast? To all which questions I returned
cautious answers, remembering that I was under a promise to the old man
not to repeat his story.
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