His wife, to whom he had been much attached, had died many years before. His only son, too, had turned out badly, got into debt (the old story of a weak will influenced by bad companions), and then had emigrated to the gold diggings, and was believed to have died there, after a few more wasted years of riot and dissipation.
His father had built many hopes on his only son, and carried about an unhealed wound caused by the bitter disappointment of all his expectations.
At the time I am writing about, I saw there was something more than usual on George's mind.
He never talked much about what he was engaged in, and I took care never to plague him with questions, but it happened that a chum of mine, named Miles, told me that George had missed a good clue, and that another man, named Smollett, was beginning to make a name, and was now bent on outdoing George.
Once run to earth someone whom George had failed to trace, and his reputation was secure.
To outshine one of the best men then at work was a high game to try for, but Smollett was trying no less.
Not long after, I met Miles again in Oxford-street. He told me that Smollett had scored again, and that George had missed a find he had made pretty sure of.
I pooh-poohed the whole thing.
"Chance, all chance. Fine thing for Smollett, more luck than good management, no doubt," I said, feeling rather nettled, I own. "Wait a bit; you will see which is the best man of the two."
"I'll back Sm—" said Miles, but he remembered that George was my friend and said no more.
I came across Miles in very nearly the same place next day. "Heard the latest?" he shouted, and then proceeded to explain that a forger, who had been wanted for some time, was supposed to be in London, and that a large reward was offered for him.
"He stood for some time deep in thought."
"Both on the war trail this time," said Miles. "Which will be the best man now, eh? Getting exciting, isn't it?"
That evening George, who had been out all day, came quickly into the room soon after six.
I knew by his look that he was employed on some important mission. His brows were drawn down into a single straight line, and his lips were firmly pressed together.
He stood for some time on the hearth-rug, evidently deep in thought. He had not removed his top coat.
"Are you off again?" I remarked.
He looked up suddenly. "Going to drive to Holloway," he said. "Will you come?"
I knew by this that he would tell me more of his errand. I rose at once. He looked at his watch.
"The cab will be round here in a few minutes," he said quickly. "I'll tell you what it is, Tom, if I miss this, I shall give up this work altogether. I have not been very lucky lately, old man, though I have not worried you about my affairs."
"They never worry me," I began, "I only wish you———"
"I know, I know," he interrupted kindly; "you think your back is broad enough to carry my cares as well as yours, but you shall never have mine to bother you, Tom, while you have got any of your own. This is the thing you have heard of"—and then he went on to tell me the details of the case that Miles had referred to.
"I came across the track this afternoon," he said, "and now it's only a question of time."
