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Upon this, Georgie, perceiving the distress of his old protector, set up a terrible howl, and declared that he would never leave him.

“Mr. Maldon,” said Robert Audley, with a tone which was half-mournful, half-compassionate, “when I looked at my position last night, I did not believe that I could ever come to think it more painful than I thought it then. I can only say—God have mercy upon us all. I feel it my duty to take the child away, but I shall take him straight from your house to the best school in Southampton; and I give you my honor that I will extort nothing from his innocent simplicity which can in any manner—I mean,” he said, breaking off abruptly, “I mean this. I will not seek to come one step nearer the secret through him. I—I am not a detective officer, and I do not think the most accomplished detective would like to get his information from a child.”

The old man did not answer; he sat with his face shaded by his hand, and with his extinguished pipe between the listless fingers of the other.

“Take the boy away, Mrs. Plowson,” he said, after a pause; “take him away and put his things on. He is going with Mr. Audley.”

“Which I do say that it’s not kind of the gentleman to take his poor grandpa’s pet away,” Mrs. Plowson exclaimed, suddenly, with respectful indignation.

“Hush, Mrs. Plowson,” the old man answered, piteously; “Mr. Audley is the best judge. I—I haven’t many years to live; I sha’n’t trouble anybody long.”

The tears oozed slowly through the dirty fingers with which he shaded his blood-shot eyes, as he said this.

“God knows, I never injured your friend, sir,” he said, by-and-by, when Mrs. Plowson and Georgey had returned, “nor even wished him any ill. He was a good son-in-law to me—better than many a son. I never did him any wilful wrong, sir. I—I spent his money, perhaps, but I am sorry for it—I am very sorry for it now. But I don’t believe he is dead—no, sir; no, I don’t believe it!” exclaimed the old man, dropping his hand from his eyes, and looking with new energy at Robert Audley. “I—I don’t believe it, sir! How—how should he be dead?”

Robert did not answer this eager questioning. He shook his head mournfully, and, walking to the little window, looked out across a row of straggling geraniums at the dreary patch of waste ground on which the children were at play.

Mrs. Plowson returned with little Georgey muffled in a coat and comforter, and Robert took the boy’s hand.

The little fellow sprung toward the old man, and clinging about him, kissed the dirty tears from his faded cheeks.

“Don’t be sorry for me, gran’pa,” he said; “I am going to school to learn to be a clever man, and I shall come home to see you and Mrs. Plowson, sha’n’t I?” he added, turning to Robert.

“Yes, my dear, by-and-by.”

“Take him away, sir—take him away,” cried Mr. Maldon; “you are breaking my heart.”

The little fellow trotted away contentedly at Robert’s side. He was very well pleased at the idea of going to school, though he had been happy enough with his drunken old grandfather, who had always displayed a maudlin affection for the pretty child, and had done his best to spoil Georgey, by letting him have his own way in everything; in consequence of which indulgence, Master Talboys had acquired a taste for late hours, hot suppers of the most indigestible nature, and sips of rum-and-water from his grandfather’s glass.

He communicated his sentiments upon many subjects to Robert Audley, as they walked to the Dolphin Hotel; but the barrister did not encourage him to talk.

It was no very difficult matter to find a good school in such a place as Southampton. Robert Audley was directed to a pretty house between the Bar and the Avenue, and leaving Georgey to the care of a good-natured waiter, who seemed to have nothing to do but to look out of the window, and whisk invisible dust off the brightly polished tables, the barrister walked up the High street toward Mr. Marchmont’s academy for young gentlemen.