“I’ll see what I can do; it’s a bit unusual, you know.”
“And you’ll do your best. Here is my card, and telephone to the hotel. Write to-night; be as slick as you can—you’ll find it will be worth your while.”
“I think we may be on the trail, Liz,” he said, as they walked away. “No harm in seeing P. Harling. If he looks a dissipated ruffian—so much the worse; but if he’s my relative I’ll give him a leg up. We may know by to-morrow night.”
At seven o’clock the next evening, the landing waiter informed Mr. Harling that a young man had called to see him, but did not give his name.
“Where is he?”
“Oh, in the hall, sir; I think he’s a clerk from some place of business.”
“Show him up here.”
The instant Harling’s eyes fell on the well-set-up but shabby stranger, he was struck by the amazing likeness to his brother. Undoubtedly this stranger was his nephew! Nevertheless he began his enquiries with caution, as he motioned him to a seat, and said:
“I’ve an idea that you may be able to tell me something of a relative who died in Melbourne. His name was Humphrey Harling.”
“It was my father’s name,” calmly responded the visitor. Then by degrees—for Humphrey’s son was inclined to be stiff and reserved—Harling extracted all the information he required. His brother, who had inherited the family failing, got into serious money difficulties; he married a fashionable dressmaker, who supported him. They had two children—twins, boy and girl. He was killed in a street accident, and his widow brought the twins to England, partly for education, and partly in the hope of finding her husband’s people. She too fell on evil days, but made at her trade sufficient to educate her children and keep a roof over her head. Now she was gone the twins lived together; he was a clerk to a stock-broker, and she a typist in a bank. Just at present Lily was ill, recovering from diphtheria, and they had been obliged to pawn one or two things.