“Oh, nonsense, father! You can do it if you take it in hand. Pitch it in strong, you know, about my wife. Tell him that for him to destroy the happiness of an innocent woman, would be as bad as what I have done. Say how devilishly sorry I am. You know the line to take.”
“It's a very unpleasant business, Fred, but if you think any good can come of it, I will try.”
“Thank you,” Fred said, “and be sure to insist upon his leaving his place at once. I don't want to have any risk of his meeting my uncle again, and stirring him up afresh.”
The next morning, accordingly, Mr. Bingham started for New Street. Upon arriving at the shop, he was astonished at finding it closed, and a bill upon the shutter—“This house and shop to be let or sold, enquire of Mr. Thompson, House Agent, Brompton Row.” In spite of this notice, he rang at the bell. There was no answer; and a neighbour, seeing Mr. Bingham standing at the door, came out and volunteered the information that Stephen Walker was gone.
“He went off yesterday at twelve o'clock, with his boxes, in a cab.”
“Am I likely to be able to find out where he has gone to?” Mr. Bingham asked; “I owe him an account for newspapers.”
“I can't say, sir; if anyone knows, it's Mrs. Holl. She's an old friend of his, and has been doing for him lately; she lives in Moor Street, No. 18.”
Mr. Bingham went off to Moor Street. He knocked at the door. Mrs. Holl came to it. On seeing a gentleman, she curtseyed.
“Do you want me, sir? I can't ask you to walk in, for I've a boy here down with fever.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Bingham said; “I called this morning to pay my newsagent, Mr. Walker, a little account I owe him, and I find his place shut up. I was directed to you as the most likely person to tell me of his whereabouts.”