"Never."
Hubert held out his hand; Bergan gave it a firm, strong clasp. There was not another word; they understood each other.
In the midst of the desultory chat that followed, there came a knock at the door; and in answer to Bergan's prompt "Come in," his former client, Unwick, entered.
"My brother," explained Bergan, as the new comer looked a little hesitatingly at Hubert. "Would you like to see me alone?"
"As you please," replied Unwick. "It is your business rather than mine that brings me here; if anything so vague and indefinite can be called business."
"Then, proceed. I have no secrets from my brother. Will you take a chair?"
Unwick sat down, and cleared his throat.
"It is a long story; but I will make it as brief as I can. You know that my cousin Varley is now in prison, under sentence of death for the murder of which I came so near to being convicted myself,—and should have been, but for you. Well, he sent for me a few days ago, to ask my pardon, and to beg me to take charge of a certain child of his. It seems that, two or three years ago, he was inveigled into a marriage with a beautiful but unprincipled girl, belonging to one of the worst families in this vicinity; her parents keep a low tavern, generally known, I believe, as the 'Rat-Hole,' about a mile out of town, on the Berganton road. Do you know it?"
"Yes, it has been pointed out to me," replied Bergan.
"Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the grandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and bring up in a respectable way. Poor fellow! he has seen what is the result of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a similar fate. Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if possible. So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother—that explains how I came to be in so vile a place. Well, I was made to wait for a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in the world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation on the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room from the next one. Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble to try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in part payment of what you had done for me. So, swallowing my scruples as best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened. There were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to call names,—I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were. One talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which made it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying. The other talked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse for liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer medley of proverbs—"