“Seems to me,” he said at last, “that once when he was pretty mad at his luck I heard him grumbling about English laws, and he said some of his distant relations were swell people who would never think of speaking to him,—perhaps didn't know he was alive,—and they lived in a big way in a place that was named after the family. He never saw it or them, and he said that was the way in England—one fellow got everything and the rest were paupers like himself. He'd always been poor.”
“Yes, the relation was a distant one. Until this investigation began the family knew nothing of him. The inquiry has been a tiresome one. I trust I am reaching the end of it. We have given nearly two years to following this clue.”
“What for?” burst forth Tembarom, sitting upright.
“Because it was necessary to find either George Temple Barholm or his son, if he had one.”
“I'm his son, all right, but he died when I was eight years old,” Tembarom volunteered. “I don't remember much about him.”
“You remember that he was not an American?”
“He was English. Hated it; but he wasn't fond of America.”
“Have you any papers belonging to him?”
Tembarom hesitated again.
“There's a few old letters—oh, and one of those glass photographs in a case. I believe it's my grandfather and grandmother, taken when they were married. Him on a chair, you know, and her standing with her hand on his shoulder.”