"Oh, Jack, Jack! And I so well off and happy, never thinking, never doing more than writing a bit of a letter, I that owed him so much! Go on, Tom Avery, I see plain enough you did get my letter, and were ashamed to answer it, but I'm not the man to reproach you. Bad as you may be, I've been worse. I ought to have known there was something wrong."
Avery stood, doubtful, for a few moments, and then walked on, muttering,—
"I ain't a bit ashamed, 'Charity begins at home;' but if that young chap goes to Birmingham on his search, I do hope he won't come across Bess, I don't want to have her at me again."
Roger presently recovered himself and made the best of his way back to Kingsmore. He went at once to Mr. Aylmer, to consult him as to the best means of tracing Jack Sparling to his present abode. Mr. Aylmer said that the officials of the Birmingham Workhouse would have some record of the transaction; so, having provided as well as he could for his business during his absence, Roger started off on his journey the very next morning.
He had some difficulty when he reached Birmingham, having neglected to ascertain the exact date of Jack's admission to the workhouse. But he knew by this time how to get people to oblige him; and his Kingsmore friends would have thought he had gone mad, could they have seen how half-crowns and shillings slipped out of his hand. But he grudged neither money nor trouble, and at last ascertained that Jack had been passed on to Newcastle-on-Tyne, for which place he took the very next train.
"Man called John Sparling, sent on from Birmingham? No need for me to look at my books, sir; I know him well. Do you want to see him?" said the Master of the Newcastle Workhouse, who seemed a good kind of man.
"He is out; he likes being sent out with a message, and I sent him to post some letters, but he'll go round by St. Anne's Churchyard, for I told him he needn't hurry. Some one he knew is buried there. He won't be too long, he's such a good old fellow."
"Old!" Roger repeated. "He can't be old! Well, I suppose I cannot miss the way if I go to meet him?"
"Stay, sir, there's some one at the gate—yes, it is he. Sparling! Come in here."
The room in which the master had received Roger looked out into the outer court; and the big gate, which made Roger think of a prison, had just been opened to admit some one, but surely not Jack! Jack's hair and beard had been as black as jet, this man's hair was white, and he had but one arm, and walked with a crutch. Roger gazed in dismay; but next moment the man was in the room, and a deep voice said,—