“Much good would he do before the committee,” said poor Tom.
And thus ended Tom’s branch of the investigation. “Come to me, if I can help you, my boy,” said Old Benbow. “It is always the darkest, old fellow, the hour before day.”
Tom was astronomer enough to know that this old saw was as false as most old saws. But with this for his only comfort, he returned to the bureau to seek Beverly and his father.
Neither Beverly nor his father was there! Tom went directly home. His mother was eager to see him.
She had come home alone, and, save Horace and Laura and Flossy and Brick, she had seen nobody but a messenger from the bureau.
Brick was the family name for Robert, one of the youngest of this household.
Of Beverly’s movements the story must be more briefly told. They took more time than Tom’s; as much indeed as his sister’s, after they parted. But they were conducted by means of that marvel of marvels, the telegraph,—the chief of whose marvels is that it compels even a long-winded generation like ours to speak in very short metre.
Beverly began with Mr. Bundy at Georgetown. Georgetown is but a quiet place on the most active of days. On Christmas Day Beverly found but little stirring out of doors.
Still, with the directory, with the advice of a saloon-keeper and the information of a police officer, Beverly tracked Mr. Bundy to his lair.
It was not a notary’s office, it was a liquor shop of the lowest grade, with many badly painted signs, which explained that this was “Our House,” and that here Mr. Bundy made and sold with proper license—let us be grateful—Tom and Jerry, Smashes, Cocktails, and did other “deeds without a name.” On this occasion, however, even the door of “Our House” was closed. Mr. Bundy had gone to a turkey-shooting match at Fairfax Court House. The period of his return was very doubtful. He had never done anything but keep this drinking-room since old Mrs. Gilbert turned him out of doors.