Exactly two months after the arrival of our adventurers at Dualla, Jim Braid, cap in hand, approached his father's cottage.
It was about eight o'clock at night, and quite dark. He had come from London that afternoon, and had walked from the station. Harry, who had travelled with him, had been met by Mr. Langton's dog-cart. But Jim preferred to walk; he desired time to brace himself for the interview which was to take place between himself and the father who had treated him with such blind and harsh injustice.
The cottage windows were illumined. Softly he opened the door and looked in. His mother was seated by the fire.
A moment later her arms were around his neck. With tears in her voice she recalled the day when Jim had come to wish her good-bye. He was then an outcast, one who was wrongly and falsely accused, who had been turned loose in the world to roam the highways like a common tramp; and since that day his mother had never doubted his innocence for a moment.
The head-gamekeeper was one of the old school of parents. In his eyes, no less than in the eyes of Mr. Langton, the evidence against his son had been crushing.
As young Braid held his mother in his arms, the door was opened, and John Braid, the gamekeeper, dressed in corduroys, entered. When he saw his son he lowered his head, after the manner of one ashamed.
"My boy," said he, "I did you a great wrong. I ask your forgiveness, as indeed I ask God's."
Jim found it difficult to speak.
"The evidence was all against me," he stammered.
"I know it was," said the gamekeeper; "but I might have known that my son would never have done such a thing. How was I to guess?" he added, throwing out his hands. "I knew nothing of this Sunstone, nor of German knavery. I knew nothing of that. All I was told was that twenty pounds had been stolen, and—as I have said—the evidence was against you, my lad, and I believed you guilty. I repeat, I should have known better."