John would not be dissuaded from the idea that his brother was intent on matrimonial thoughts. Tommy waved his hand, in a deprecatory way, and rising from his chair, said “good night,” and betook himself to bed.
It was plain that he was quite alone in his discovery. What was he to do? To speak to Miss Owen on the subject was out of the question. The only alternative was to communicate the good news to “Cobbler” Horn himself. But there seemed to be stupendous difficulties involved in such a course. He was aware that there was nothing his friend would more rejoice to know than that which he had to tell. From various hints thrown out by “Cobbler” Horn, Tommy knew that he regarded Miss Owen with much of the fondness of a father; and it was not likely that the joy of finding his lost child would be diminished in the least by the fact that she had presented herself in the person of his secretary. But this consideration did not relieve the perplexity with which the little huckster contemplated the necessity of making known his secret to “Cobbler” Horn. For, to say nothing of the initial obstacle of his own timidity, he feared it would be almost impossible to convince his friend that his strange surmise was correct. If “Cobbler” Horn had not discovered for himself the identity of his secretary with his long-lost child, was it likely that he would accept that astounding fact on the testimony of any other person?
It is needless to say that Tommy Dudgeon made his perplexity a matter of prayer. He prayed and pondered, night and day; and, at length a thought came to him which seemed to point out the way of which he was in search. Might he not give “Cobbler” Horn some covert hint which would put him on the track of making the great discovery for himself? Surely some such thing, though difficult, might be done! He must indeed be cautious, and not by any means reveal his design. The suggestion must seem to be incidental and unpremeditated. There must be no actual mention of little Marian, and no apparently intentional indication of Miss Owen. Something must be said which might induce “Cobbler” Horn to associate the idea of his little lost Marian with that of his young secretary—to place them side by side before his mind. And it must all arise in the course of conversation, the order of which—he Tommy Dudgeon, must deliberately plan. The audacity of the thought made his hair stand up.
It was a delicate undertaking indeed! The little man felt like a surgeon about to perform a critical operation upon his dearest friend. He was preparing to open an old wound in the heart of his beloved benefactor. True, he hoped so to deal with it that it should never bleed again. But what if he failed? That would be dreadful! Yet the attempt must be made. So he set himself to his task. His opportunity came on the afternoon of the day following that of the opening of the “Home.” Watching from the corner of his window, as he was wont, about three o’clock, Tommy saw “the Golden Shoemaker” come along the street, and enter his old house. Then the little man turned away from the window, and became very nervous. For quite two minutes he stood back against the shelves, trying to compose himself. When he had succeeded, in some degree, in steadying his quivering nerves, he reached from under the counter a brown-paper parcel containing a pair of boots, which had, for some days, been lying in readiness for the occasion which had now arrived, and, calling John to mind the shop, slipped swiftly into the street. A minute later he was standing in the doorway of “Cobbler” Horn’s workshop. “The little Twin Brethren” had, at first, been disposed to refrain from availing themselves of the gratuitous labours of their friend; but, perceiving that it would afford him pleasure, they had yielded with an easy grace, and now Tommy was glad to have so good an excuse for a visit to “the Golden Shoemaker,” as was supplied by the boots in the parcel under his arm.
“Cobbler” Horn perceived the nervousness of his visitor, and thinking it strange that the bringing of a pair of boots to be mended should have occasioned his humble little friend so much trepidation, he did his best, by adopting a specially sociable tone, to put him at his ease.
“Ah, Tommy, what have we there?” he asked. “More work for the ‘Cobbler,’ eh?”
“Just an old pair of boots which want mending, Mr. Horn,” said Tommy, in uncertain tones, as he unwrapped the boots and held them out with a shaking hand—“that is, if you are not too busy.”
“Not by any means,” said “Cobbler” Horn, with a smile. “Put them down.”
Tommy obeyed.
There stood against the wall, a much-worn wooden chair from which the back had been sawn off close.