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‘Don’t worry; that never did any good yet. We’ve got to find out, first of all, how much of Roper’s story is true. What did he tell you?’

‘He said that Mr. Bowles had been going down the hill for a year or more–that his business was neglected, that he spent his time at racecourses and in public-houses–and that the cause of it all was my son. My son? What had my son to do with it? Why, didn’t I know that Charles was a racing and betting man, and a notorious bookmaker? You can imagine what sort of a feeling that gave me. Roper couldn’t believe it was the first I had heard of it; he said lots of people in the town knew how Charles was living. Did you know, Mr. Lott?’

‘Not I; I’m not much in the way of gossip.’

‘Well, there’s what Roper said. It was last night, and what with that and my cough, I didn’t get a wink of sleep after it. About three o’clock this morning I made up my mind to go to London at once and see Mr. Bowles. If it’s true that he’s been robbed and ruined by Charles, I’ve only one thing to do–my duty’s plain enough. I shall ask him how much money Charles has had of him, and, if my means are equal to it, I shall pay every penny back–every penny.’

Mr. Lott’s countenance waxed so grim that one would have thought him about to break into wrath against the speaker. But it was merely his way of disguising a pleasant emotion.

‘I don’t think most men would see it in that way,’ he remarked gruffly.

‘Whether they would or not,’ exclaimed Mr. Daffy, panting and wriggling, ‘it’s as plain as plain could be that there’s no other course for a man who respects himself. I couldn’t live a day with such a burden as that on my mind. A bookmaker! A blackguard bookmaker! To think my son should come to that! You know very well, Mr. Lott, that there’s nothing I hate and despise more than horse-racing. We’ve often talked about it, and the harm it does, and the sin and shame it is that such doings should be permitted–haven’t we?’

‘Course we have, course we have,’ returned the other, with a nod. But he was absorbed in his own reflections, and gave only half an ear to the gasping vehemences which Mr. Daffy poured forth for the next ten minutes. There followed a short silence, then the strong man shook himself and opened his lips.

‘Do you know my idea?’ he blurted out.

‘What’s that, Mr. Lott?’

‘If I were you I wouldn’t go to see Bowles. Better for me to do that. We’ve only gossip to go upon, and we know what that often amounts to. Leave Bowles to me, and go and see your son.’

‘But I don’t even know where he’s living.’

‘You don’t? That’s awkward. Well then, come along with me to Bowles’s place of business; as likely as not, if we find him, he’ll be able to give you your son’s address. What do you say to my idea, Mr. Daffy?’

The tailor assented to this arrangement, on condition that, if things were found to be as he had heard, he should be left free to obey his conscience. The stopping of the train at an intermediate station, where new passengers entered, put an end to the confidential talk. Mr. Daffy, breathing hard, struggled with his painful thoughts; the timber-merchant, deeply meditative, let his eyes wander about the carriage. As they drew near to the London terminus, Mr. Lott bent forward to his friend.

‘I want to buy a present for my eldest nephew,’ he remarked, ‘but I can’t for the life of me think what it had better be.’

‘Perhaps you’ll see something in a shop-window,’ suggested Mr. Daffy.

‘Maybe I shall.’

They alighted at Liverpool Street. Mr. Lott hailed a hansom, and they were driven to a street in Southwark, where, at the entrance of a building divided into offices, one perceived the name of Bowles and Perkins. This firm was on the fifth floor, and Mr. Daffy eyed the staircase with misgiving.