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“I need scarcely ask the question that I come to ask,” he said; “I was in hopes I should have found your son-in-law here.”

“What! you knew that he was coming to Southampton?”

“Knew that he was coming?” cried Robert, brightening up. “He is here, then?”

“No, he is not here now; but he has been here.”

“When?”

“Late last night; he came by the mail.”

“And left again immediately?”

“He stayed little better than an hour.”

“Good Heaven!” said Robert, “what useless anxiety that man has given me! What can be the meaning of all this?”

“You knew nothing of his intention, then?”

“Of what intention?”

“I mean of his determination to go to Australia.”

“I know that it was always in his mind more or less, but not more just now than usual.”

“He sails to-night from Liverpool. He came here at one o’clock this morning to have a look at the boy, he said, before he left England, perhaps never to return. He told me he was sick of the world, and that the rough life out there was the only thing to suit him. He stayed an hour, kissed the boy without awaking him, and left Southampton by the mail that starts at a quarter-past two.”

“What can be the meaning of all this?” said Robert. “What could be his motive for leaving England in this manner, without a word to me, his most intimate friend—without even a change of clothes; for he has left everything at my chambers? It is the most extraordinary proceeding!”

The old man looked very grave. “Do you know, Mr. Audley,” he said, tapping his forehead significantly, “I sometimes fancy that Helen’s death had a strange effect upon poor George.”

“Pshaw!” cried Robert, contemptuously; “he felt the blow most cruelly, but his brain was as sound as yours or mine.”

“Perhaps he will write to you from Liverpool,” said George’s father-in-law. He seemed anxious to smooth over any indignation that Robert might feel at his friend’s conduct.

“He ought,” said Robert, gravely, “for we’ve been good friends from the days when we were together at Eton. It isn’t kind of George Talboys to treat me like this.”

But even at the moment that be uttered the reproach a strange thrill of remorse shot through his heart.

“It isn’t like him,” he said, “it isn’t like George Talboys.”

Little Georgey caught at the sound. “That’s my name,” he said, “and my papa’s name—the big gentleman’s name.”

“Yes, little Georgey, and your papa came last night and kissed you in your sleep. Do you remember?”

“No,” said the boy, shaking his curly little head.

“You must have been very fast asleep, little Georgey, not to see poor papa.”

The child did not answer, but presently, fixing his eyes upon Robert’s face, he said abruptly:

“Where’s the pretty lady?”

“What pretty lady?”

“The pretty lady that used to come a long while ago.”

“He means his poor mamma,” said the old man.

“No,” cried the boy resolutely, “not mamma. Mamma was always crying. I didn’t like mamma—”

“Hush, little Georgey!”

“But I didn’t, and she didn’t like me. She was always crying. I mean the pretty lady; the lady that was dressed so fine, and that gave me my gold watch.”

“He means the wife of my old captain—an excellent creature, who took a great fancy to Georgey, and gave him some handsome presents.”

“Where’s my gold watch? Let me show the gentleman my gold watch,” cried Georgey.

“It’s gone to be cleaned, Georgey,” answered his grandfather.

“It’s always going to be cleaned,” said the boy.

“The watch is perfectly safe, I assure you, Mr. Audley,” murmured the old man, apologetically; and taking out a pawnbroker’s duplicate, he handed it to Robert.

It was made out in the name of Captain Mortimer: “Watch, set with diamonds, £11.”

“I’m often hard pressed for a few shillings, Mr. Audley,” said the old man. “My son-in-law has been very liberal to me; but there are others, there are others, Mr. Audley—and—and—I’ve not been treated well.” He wiped away some genuine tears as he said this in a pitiful, crying voice. “Come, Georgey, it’s time the brave little man was in bed. Come along with grandpa. Excuse me for a quarter of an hour, Mr. Audley.”