"Yes, quite right," said Bowker, after a moment's consideration. "You must not see Lord Beauport; he's in a sad state of mind still, and any further worry might be dangerous. You've done admirably, Mr. Blackett,--admirably indeed; and your reward shall be proportionate, you may take my word for that; but I think it will be best to leave matters as they are until--at all events, until I have spoken to my friend. The name was Lambert, I think you said; and what was the address?"
"No. 102, Thompson Street, just beyond Nottin'-'Ill Gate; milliner's shop, name of Chapman. Beg your pardon, sir, but this is a pretty case, and one as has been neatly worked up; you won't let it be spoilt by any amatoors?"
"Eh?--by what? I don't think I understand you."
"You won't let any one go makin' inquiries on their own hook? So many of our best cases is spoilt by amatoors shovin' their oars in."
"You may depend on that, Mr. Blackett; the whole credit of the discovery is justly due to you, and you shall have it. Now good day to you; I shall find you here, I suppose, when next I want you?"
Mr. Blackett bowed, and conducted his visitor through the hollow-sounding corridors, and bade him a respectful farewell at the door. Then, when William Bowker was alone, he stopped, and shook his head sorrowfully, muttering, "A bad job, a bad job! God help you, Geoff, my poor fellow! there's more trouble in store for you--more trouble in store!"
[CHAPTER VII.]
TRACKED.
The news which Mr. William Bowker had heard from Inspector Blackett troubled its recipient considerably, and it was not until he had thought it over deeply and consumed a large quantity of tobacco in the process, that he arrived at any settled determination as to what was the right course to be pursued by him. His first idea was to make Geoffrey Ludlow acquainted with the whole story, and let him act as he thought best; but a little subsequent reflection changed his opinion on this point. Geoff was very weak in health, certainly in no fit state to leave his bed; and yet if he heard that Margaret was found, that her address was known, above all that she was ill, Bowker knew him well enough to be aware that nothing would prevent him at once setting out to see her, and probably to use every effort to induce her to return with him. Such a course would be bad in every way, but in the last respect it would be fatal. For one certain reason Bowker had almost hoped that nothing more might ever be heard of the wretched woman who had fallen like a curse upon his friend's life. He knew Geoffrey Ludlow root and branch, knew how thoroughly weak he was, and felt certain that, no matter how grievous the injury which Margaret had done him, he had but to see her again--to see her more especially in sickness and misfortune--to take her back to his heart and to his hearth, and defy the counsel of his friends and the opinion of the world. That would never do. Geoff had been sufficiently dragged down by this unfortunate infatuation; but he had a future which should be independent of her, undimmed by any tarnish accruing to him from those wondrous misspent days. So old Bowker firmly believed; and to accomplish that end he determined that none of Inspector Blackett's news should find its way to Geoffrey's ears, at all events until he, Bowker, had personally made himself acquainted with the state of affairs.
It must have been an impulse of the strongest friendship and love for Geoff that induced William Bowker to undertake this duty; for it was one which inspired him with aversion, not to say horror. At first he had some thoughts of asking Charley Potts to do it; but then he bethought him that Charley, headstrong, earnest, and impulsive as he was, was scarcely the man to be intrusted with such a delicate mission. And he remembered, moreover, that Charley was now to a great extent lié with Geoff's family, that he had been present at Geoff's first meeting with Margaret, that he had always spoken against her, and that now, imbued as he was likely to be with some of the strong feelings of old Mrs. Ludlow, he would be certain to make a mess of the mission, and, without the least intention of being offensive, would hurt some one's feelings in an unmistakable and unpardonable manner. No; he must go himself, horribly painful as it would be to him. His had been a set gray life for who should say how many years; he had not been mixed up with any woman's follies or griefs in ever so slight a degree, he had heard no woman's voice in plaintive appeal or earnest confession, he had seen no woman's tears or hung upon no woman's smile, since--since when? Since the days spent with her. Ah, how the remembrance shut out the present and opened up the long, long vistas of the past! He was no longer the bald-headed, grizzle-bearded, stout elderly man; he was young Bowker, from whom so much was expected; and the common tavern-parlour in which he was seated, with its beer-stained tables and its tobacco-reek faded away, and the long dusty roads of Andalusia, the tinkling bells of the mules, the cheery shouts of the sunburnt arrieros, the hard-earned pull at the bota, and the loved presence, now vanished for ever, rose in his memory.