Robert Audley left the boy in charge of the idle waiter, and strolled down to the water side, choosing that lonely bank which leads away under the moldering walls of the town toward the little villages beside the narrowing river.
He had purposely avoided the society of the child, and he walked through the light drifting snow till the early darkness closed upon him.
He went back to the town, and made inquiries at the station about the trains for Dorsetshire.
"I shall start early to-morrow morning," he thought, "and see George's father before nightfall. I will tell him all--all but the interest which I take in--in the suspected person, and he shall decide what is next to be done."
Master Georgey did very good justice to the dinner which Robert had ordered. He drank Bass' pale ale to an extent which considerably alarmed his entertainer, and enjoyed himself amazingly, showing an appreciation of roast pheasant and bread-sauce which was beyond his years. At eight o'clock a fly was brought out for his accommodation, and he departed in the highest spirits, with a sovereign in his pocket, and a letter from Robert to Mr. Marchmont, inclosing a check for the young gentleman's outfit.
"I'm glad I'm going to have new clothes," he said, as he bade Robert good-by; "for Mrs. Plowson has mended the old ones ever so many times. She can have them now, for Billy."
"Who's Billy?" Robert asked, laughing at the boy's chatter.
"Billy is poor Matilda's little boy. He's a common boy, you know. Matilda was common, but she--"
But the flyman snapping his whip at this moment, the old horse jogged off, and Robert Audley heard no more of Matilda.