"Do you think you can?"
"I know I can, sir. Ye see, he died in my arms, called me 'is bye Jarge, said 'e were proud of me, 'e did! A man can begin again an' live straight an' square wi' a memory the like o' that to 'elp 'im."
"Then why not begin to-night?"
He passed a tremulous hand through his silver hair, and stared at me with incredulous eyes.
"Begin-to-night!" he half whispered.
"I have an old house among the Kentish hop-gardens," I went on; "no one lives there at present except a care-taker, but it is within the bounds of probability that I may go to stay there—some day. Now the gardens need trimming, and I'm very fond of flowers; do you suppose you could make the place look decent in—say, a month?"
"Sir," he said in a strange, broken voice, "you ain't jokin' with me, are you?"
"I could pay you a pound a week; what do you say?"
He tried to speak, but his lips quivered, and he turned his back upon us very suddenly. I tore a page from my pocket-book and scrawled a hasty note to my care-taker.
"Here is the address," I said, tapping him on the shoulder. "You will find no difficulty. I will write again to-night. You must of course have money to get there and may need to buy a few necessaries besides; here is your first week's wages in advance," and I thrust a sovereign into his hand. He stared down at it with blinking eyes, shuffling awkwardly with his feet, and at that moment his face seemed very worn, and lined, and his hair very grey, yet I had a feeling that I should not regret my quixotic action in the end.