me that is so mightily wonderful? I got what's-his-name--Mr. Jones's--
letter, and now I am ready to hear what you have to say."

But if he thought but little of his visitor's appearance at first, he
soon changed his sentiments towards him, for Tom had not spoken twenty
words when Mr. Chillingsworth's whole aspect changed. He straightened
himself up in his seat, laid aside his pipe, pushed away his glass of
Madeira, and bade Tom take a chair. He listened without a word as Tom
Chist told of the buried treasure, of how he had seen the poor negro
murdered, and of how he and Parson Jones had recovered the chest again.
Only once did Mr. Chillingsworth interrupt the narrative. "And to
think," he cried, "that the villain this very day walks about New York
town as though he were an honest man, ruffling it with the best of us!
But if we can only get hold of these log-books you speak of. Go on;
tell me more of this."

When Tom Chist's narrative was ended, Mr. Chillingsworth's bearing was
as different as daylight is from dark. He asked a thousand questions,
all in the most polite and gracious tone imaginable, and not only urged
a glass of his fine old Madeira upon Tom, but asked him to stay to
supper. There was nobody to be there, he said, but his wife and
daughter.

Tom, all in a panic at the very thought of the two ladies, sturdily
refused to stay even for the dish of tea Mr. Chillingsworth offered
him.

He did not know that he was destined to stay there as long as he should
live.