Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 2).djvu/29

 He drew a deep breath of relief, and threw his shoulders back. "I did make a mess of that last thing, and that makes me more keen about this. You see, there’s another man" (I knew he meant Smollett) "who would give a good bit to get hold of this job before me, but there's not much fear of my losing it now."

He smiled as he spoke, and looked more hopeful than he had done for a long time.

We said nothing more, and drove off.

It was a wet, cold night, and I was glad when the cab stopped, and we left it at the corner of a shabby-looking side street.

"Third door on the right," said George, partly to himself, "past the coal yard, over the butcher's. You wait here for two minutes, Tom; if I am not down then, you follow me. Back room on the top of staircase. I may want you. Don't stand in the wet. Here's a doorway to shelter in."

At the end of two minutes, I was climbing quietly up the narrow dark staircase. No sound of voices anywhere.

"Bird's flown. Bad luck to him," I thought. "Awfully hard on George, poor fellow."

I was at the top when suddenly there came the sound (so seldom heard) of a man's voice broken by sobs, striving to speak quickly and coherently.

"Ah! found it's no go, confessing his sins," I smiled to myself, and pushed the door ajar.

Ah! how could I have known George's voice, always so quiet, so self-controlled? How could I recognise George himself, kneeling on the floor, by the side of a poor, miserable bed, holding in his arms the figure of a man. A head was resting on his shoulder; his hands were smoothing back the dark hair from a thin, white face on which his own tears were fast falling.

"Come, my boy, no time to lose. You know me? Bob dear, quick, say you know me—your father, Bob, it's only your father; you must get out of this, no one knows but me, Bob, no one will know, no one will follow you—quick, quick." And with a sob in his throat, he turned round and saw me.

He had forgotten my existence, but now seemed to think that I knew everything.

No explanation that this was his lost son, whom he had tracked to earth, and whose discovery was to bring him so much credit. No thought of the object for which he had come. The detective was not there; in his place stood a broken-hearted father, with but one thought in his mind, how best to get his unhappy son out of the reach of the law which had so nearly caught him.

"Come," he cried, in a hoarse whisper to me, "help him to stand, he is weak; we must arrange for him."

I had looked round the place. The squalid poverty of the uncleaned room, the well-worn pack of cards lying on the chair by the bed, the empty bottle on the other side, and the stale smell of spirits and tobacco in the room all told the same tale, and bore silent but unmistakable witness to the complete mastery of evil habits.

But of all this George seemed to see nothing.

The sharp-searching scrutiny of the detective had given place to the loving look of a father, to whom all forgiveness was possible.

With hasty hands he had taken off his hat, greatcoat, and scarf, and was now hurriedly putting them on the figure, who offered no help, and who seemed too dazed and bewildered to speak.

"Here is money, my boy," he whispered