“Are you sure? You were not mistaken? You really did look to make sure?”
Harry smiled faintly, as he thought of his irresolution, and the way in which he had held back; and then he answered, calmly—
“Yes, Sir Francis; I made perfectly sure.”
It was pitiful to see the old man’s trouble—the constant agitation, the anxious gaze, the nervous restless motion of his hands—as he turned over some communication—some letter professing to give information respecting a young man in some far-off part of England or Wales—every despatch exciting hopes that were soon found to be perfectly baseless.
At length, after much persuasion, Sir Francis agreed to lie down, on the condition that Clayton would stay, ready to answer any communication that might arrive.
“You know, my dear boy, these things always will arrive when we are absent,” he said, pitifully.
“Trust me, Sir Francis,” was the reply. “I am indeed doing everything possible to lead to a discovery.”
The old man did not trust himself to speak; but wringing Harry’s hand, he despairingly left the room.
In the meantime, Harry’s sudden departure from before the boat-shed, far down on the muddy banks of the Thames, had not been allowed to pass uncanvassed by the two rough men, the seekers for such ghastly waifs and strays.
“Suv’rin,” said the one who had acted as guide, in answer to a query,