“It struck me, from the looks of him,” said Mr Sniff, quite despising himself for being so unprofessionally communicative—“it struck me he didn’t very much care where he went. Very down in the mouth he was.”
“Why, but he was acquitted; his character was cleared. Whatever should he be down in the mouth about?” said Horace.
Mr Sniff smiled pityingly.
“He was let off with a caution,” he said; “that’s rather a different thing from having your character cleared, especially when our friend Fogey’s on the bench. I was sorry for the lad, so I was.”
This was a great deal to come from the lips of a cast-iron individual like Mr Sniff, and it explained the state of the case forcibly enough to his two hearers. Horace knew his brother’s nature well enough to imagine the effect upon him of such a reprimand, and his spirits sank within him.
“Who can tell us now where we are to look for him?” said he to Harker. “Anything like injustice drives him desperate. He may have gone off, as the detective says, not caring where. And then Liverpool is a fearfully big place.”
“We won’t give it up till we have found him,” said Harker; “and if you can’t stay, old man, I will.”
“I can’t go,” said Horace, with a groan. “Poor Reg!”
“Well, let us call round at the post-office and see if Waterford has remembered to telegraph about your mother.”
They went to the post-office and found a telegram from Miss Crisp: “Good day. Better, decidedly. Knows you are in Liverpool, but nothing more. Any news? Do not telegraph unless all right.”