CHAPTER XX.

Tracy made slow progress with his work, for his mind wandered a good

deal. Many things were puzzling him. Finally a light burst upon him all

of a sudden--seemed to, at any rate--and he said to himself, "I've got

the clew at last--this man's mind is off its balance; I don't know how

much, but it's off a point or two, sure; off enough to explain this mess

of perplexities, anyway. These dreadful chromos which he takes for old

masters; these villainous portraits--which to his frantic mind represent

Rossmores; the hatchments; the pompous name of this ramshackle old crib-

Rossmore Towers; and that odd assertion of his, that I was expected. How

could I be expected? that is, Lord Berkeley. He knows by the papers that

that person was burned up in the New Gadsby. Why, hang it, he really

doesn't know who he was expecting; for his talk showed that he was not

expecting an Englishman, or yet an artist, yet I answer his requirements

notwithstanding. He seems sufficiently satisfied with me. Yes, he is a

little off; in fact I am afraid he is a good deal off, poor old

gentleman. But he's interesting--all people in about his condition are,

I suppose. I hope he'll like my work; I would like to come every day and

study him. And when I write my father--ah, that hurts! I mustn't get on

that subject; it isn't good for my spirits. Somebody coming--I must get

to work. It's the old gentleman again. He looks bothered. Maybe my

clothes are suspicious; and they are--for an artist. If my conscience

would allow me to make a change, but that is out of the question.

I wonder what he's making those passes in the air for, with his hands.

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The American Claimant