“Why—I—thought you were off to London!” exclaimed Queeker, with a very red face.
“I have seen cause to change my plan,” said Mr Larks quietly.
“I’m very glad of it,” replied Queeker, running his fingers through his hair and sitting down opposite his friend with a deep sigh, “because I’m in the most horrible state of perplexity. It is quite evident to me that the boy is known to Miss Durant, for she went off into such a state when I mentioned him and described him exactly.”
“Indeed,” said Mr Larks; “h’m! I know the boy too.”
“Do you? Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“There was no occasion to,” said the imperturbable Mr Larks, whose visage never by any chance conveyed any expression whatever, except when he pleased, and then it conveyed only and exactly the expression that he intended. “But come,” he continued, “let’s hear all about it, and don’t quote any poetry till you have done with the facts.”
Thus exhorted Queeker described the scene at the supper-table with faithful minuteness, and, on concluding, demanded what was to be done.
“H’m!” grunted Mr Larks. “They’ve gone to visit Nora Jones, so you and I shall go and keep them company. Come along.”
He put on his hat and went out, followed by his little friend.
In a lowly ill-furnished room in one of the poorest streets of the town, where rats and dogs and cats seemed to divide the district with poverty-stricken human beings, they found Nora sitting by the bedside of her grandmother, who appeared to be dying. A large Family Bible, from which she had been reading, was open on her knee.