Poor Sir Thomas and his lady felt a shiver through their hearts at the matter-of-fact way in which these words were uttered.
“You don’t think, then,” asked the baronet, “that he has started in any vessel for America or Australia?”
“No; because no captain would take him as a sailor, and he’d not be able to raise money to go even as a steerage passenger. Besides, he wouldn’t risk it, as he’d know that all the outward bound vessels might be searched for him by that man of his—Poole, I think you called him.”
“But don’t you suppose he may have left by railway, and gone to some other large town?”
“Of course he may, but I don’t think he has, because he’ll have sense enough to know that he can’t have much to spare for travelling, if he’s gambled away his ready money, and don’t mean to ask you for any more.”
“Perhaps he has done, or means to do, something desperate,” said Lady Oldfield, tremblingly; “he seemed to hint at something of the kind in his letter to me.”
“No, he’ll not do that, I think—at least not just yet. Habitual drunkards have seldom got it in them. They’ll talk big, but still they’ll go on hanging about where they can get the drink.”
“Then you believe that he is still in Liverpool?” said Sir Thomas.
“That’s my belief.”
“And you think that you can find him?”