‘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.

‘No need for you to go up,’ said his companion.  ’Wait here, and I’ll see if I can get the address.’

Mr. Lott was absent for only a few minutes.  He came down again with his lips hard set, knocking each step sharply with his walking-stick.

‘I’ve got it,’ he said, and named a southern suburb.

‘Have you seen Mr. Bowles?’

‘No; he’s out of town,’ was the reply.  ‘Saw his partner.’

They walked side by side for a short way, then Mr. Lott stopped.

’Do you know my idea?  It’s a little after eleven.  I’m going to see my daughter, and I dare say I shall catch the 3.49 home from Liverpool Street.  Suppose we take our chance of meeting there?’

Thus it was agreed.  Mr. Daffy turned in the direction of his son’s abode; the timber-merchant went northward, and presently reached Finsbury Park, where in a house of unpretentious but decent appearance, dwelt Mr. Bowles.  The servant who answered the door wore a strange look, as if something had alarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, on going to inquire, shut the door on the visitor’s face.  A few minutes elapsed before Mr. Lott was admitted.  The hall struck him as rather bare; and at the entrance of the drawing-room he stopped in astonishment, for, excepting the window-curtains and a few ornaments, the room was quite unfurnished.  At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, and her head bent—­an attitude indicative of distress or shame.