"To Stammars!" exclaimed Jack, in astonishment. "That is the place where I am living at present."
"Indeed! A guest of Sir Thomas Dudgeon, I presume?"
"Hardly that. My name is John Pomeroy, and I am only Sir Thomas's new secretary."
"And I am Miss Lloyd. Like you, my present home is at Stammars."
Pomeroy did not answer. He was confounded. But through him there shot a strange, rapturous thrill, such as he had never felt before. "I wish we were going to travel together for a thousand miles instead of three!" was the unspoken thought in his heart. "This is she whom I have secretly longed to see ever since I was quite a boy. Her name itself had always a strange fascination for me. And now I see her and know her. If there be any wit in my brain, any power of pleading in my tongue, any strength of purpose in my heart--then shall this sweet creature become my wife!"
"I think," said Miss Lloyd, "that for the present, at least, we could not do better than place this little darling under the care of Mrs. Nixon, the wife of the under gardener at Stammars. She is a mother herself, and will treat it kindly. We shall then have time to think about its future. It is very singular that you and I should have met thus. When I passed you on the road I was certainly puzzled at first to make out what it was that you were carrying," she added, with a smile. "But when I saw what it really was, I thought that you were perhaps doing it for a wager. Such things have been done, I daresay. But to do what you did out of pure compassion, was very nice of you indeed."
[CHAPTER IX.]
FOUND.
On the eve of his departure for Pembridge, Gerald Warburton had promised Ambrose Murray that immediately after his return he would consult with him as to the steps which it would be advisable to take in furtherance of that quest on which the mind of the elder man was so firmly bent, but which to the younger one looked, at that time, so thoroughly hopeless. The momentary glimpse which they obtained of Jacoby while standing on the platform of Welwyn Station, happening just then, came like an apt and singular confirmation of the story told by Murray. It acted as a spur to Gerald's flagging purpose, and would have served as an additional incentive to Murray, had any such been needed, to press forward unflinchingly towards the end he had in view. From that day forward no one could accuse Gerald of any want of enthusiasm for the cause he had adopted as his own. He put his hand to the plough, and he never looked backward again.
The first, and perhaps the most difficult, move in the game they had set themselves to play, had been solved for them by the merest accident. Jacoby was still alive. There was no need for them to trouble themselves further on that score. The next move, and one hardly less difficult than the first one, was to find out where Jacoby was now living; and the question that Gerald at once set himself to answer was this: What is the likeliest and readiest mode of discovering the whereabouts of this man?