Mr Peacocke went on alone to San Francisco from the Ogden Junction, and there obtained full information on the matter which had brought him upon this long and disagreeable journey. He had no difficulty in obtaining the evidence which he required. He had not been twenty-four hours in the place before he was, in truth, standing on the stone which had been placed over the body of Ferdinand Lefroy, as he had declared to Robert Lefroy that he would stand before he would be satisfied. On the stone was cut simply the names, Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana; and to these were added the dates of the days on which the man had been born and on which he died. Of this stone he had a photograph made, of which he took copies with him; and he obtained also from the minister who had buried the body and from the custodian who had charge of the cemetery certificates of the interment. Armed with these he could no longer doubt himself, or suppose that others would doubt, that Ferdinand Lefroy was dead.

Having thus perfected his object, and feeling but little interest in a town to which he had been brought by such painful circumstances, he turned round, and on the second day after his arrival, again started for Chicago. Had it been possible, he would fain have avoided any further meeting with Robert Lefroy. Short as had been his stay at San Francisco he had learnt that Robert, after his brother’s death, had been concerned in buying mining shares and paying for them with forged notes. It was not supposed that he himself had been engaged in the forgery, but that he had come into the city with men who had been employed for years on this operation, and had bought shares and endeavoured to sell them on the following day. He had, however, managed to leave the place before the police had got hold of him, and had escaped, so that no one had been able to say at what station he had got upon the railway. Nor did anyone in San Francisco know where Robert Lefroy was now to be found. His companions had been taken, tried, and convicted, and were now in the State prison — where also would Robert Lefroy soon be if any of the officers of the State could get hold of him. Luckily Mr Peacocke had said little or nothing of the man in making his own inquiries. Much as he had hated and dreaded the man; much as he had suffered from his companionship — good reason as he had to dislike the whole family — he felt himself bound by their late companionship not to betray him. The man had assisted Mr Peacocke simply for money; but still he had assisted him. Mr Peacocke therefore held his peace and said nothing. But he would have been thankful to have been able to send the money that was now due to him without having again to see him. That, however, was impossible.

On reaching Chicago he went to an hotel far removed from that which Lefroy had designated. Lefroy had explained to him something of the geography of the town, and had explained that for himself he preferred a “modest, quiet hotel”. The modest, quiet hotel was called Mrs Jones’s boarding-house, and was in one of the suburbs far from the main street. “You needn’t say as you’re coming to me,” Lefroy had said to him; “nor need you let on as you know anything of Mrs Jones at all. People are so curious; and it may be that a gentleman sometimes likes to lie perdoo. “ Mr Peacocke, although he had but small sympathy for the taste of a gentleman who likes to lie perdoo, nevertheless did as he was bid, and found his way to Mrs Jones’s boarding-house without telling anyone whither he was going.

Before he started he prepared himself with a thousand dollars in bank-notes, feeling that this wretched man had earned them in accordance with their compact. His only desire now was to hand over the money as quickly as possible, and to hurry away out of Chicago. He felt as though he himself were almost guilty of some crime in having to deal with this man, in having to give him money secretly, and in carrying out to the end an arrangement of which no one else was to know the details. How would it be with him if the police of Chicago should come upon him as a friend, and probably an accomplice, of one who was “wanted” on account of forgery at San Francisco? But he had no help for himself, and at Mrs Jones’s he found his wife’s brother-in-law seated in the bar of the public house — that everlasting resort for American loungers — with a cigar as usual stuck in his mouth, loafing away his time as only American frequenters of such establishments know how to do. In England such a man would probably be found in such a place with a glass of some alcoholic mixture beside him, but such is never the case with an American. If he wants a drink he goes to the bar and takes it standing — will perhaps take two or three, one after another; but when he has settled himself down to loaf, he satisfies himself with chewing a cigar, and covering a circle around him with the results. With this amusement he will remain contented hour after hour — nay, throughout the entire day if no harder work be demanded of him. So was Robert Lefroy found now. When Peacocke entered the hall or room the man did not rise from his chair, but accosted him as though they had parted only an hour since. “So, old fellow, you’ve got back all alive.”

“I have reached this place at any rate.”

“Well; that’s getting back, ain’t it?”

“I have come back from San Francisco.”

“H’sh!” exclaimed Lefroy, looking round the room, in which, however, there was no one but themselves. “You needn’t tell everybody where you’ve been.”

“I have nothing to conceal.”

“That is more than anybody knows of himself. It’s a good maxim to keep your own affairs quiet till they’re wanted. In this country everybody is spry enough to learn all about everything. I never see any good in letting them know without a reason. Well — what did you do when you got there?”

“It was all as you told me.”

“Didn’t I say so? What was the good of bringing me all this way, when, if you’d only believed me, you might have saved me the trouble. Ain’t I to be paid for that?”

“You are to be paid. I have come here to pay you.

“That’s what you owe for the knowledge. But for coming? Ain’t I to be paid extra for the journey?”

“You are to have a thousand dollars.”

“H’sh! — you speak of money as though every one has a business to know that you have got your pockets full. What’s a thousand dollars, seeing all that I have done for you!”

“It’s all that you’re going to get. It’s all, indeed, I that I have got to give you.”

“Gammon.”

“It’s all, at any rate, that you’re going to get. Will you have it now?”

“You found the tomb, did you?”

“Yes; I found the tomb. Here is a photograph of it. You can keep a copy if you like it.”

“What do I want of a copy?” said the man, taking the photograph in his hand. “He was always more trouble than he was worth — was Ferdy. It’s a pity she didn’t marry me. I’d’ve made a woman of her.” Peacocke shuddered as he heard this, but he said nothing. “You may as well give us the picter — it’ll do to hang up somewhere if ever I have a room of my own. How plain it is. Ferdinand Lefroy — of Kilbrack! Kilbrack indeed! It’s little either of us was the better for Kilbrack. Some of them psalm-singing rogues from New England has it now — or perhaps a right-down nigger. I shouldn’t wonder. One of our own lot, maybe! Oh; that’s the money, is it? — A thousand dollars; all that I’m to have for coming to England and telling you, and bringing you back, and showing you where you could get this pretty picter made.” Then he took the money, a thick roll of notes, and crammed them into his pocket.

“You’d better count them.”

“It ain’t worth the while with such a trifle as that.”

“Let me count them then.”

“You’ll never have that plunder in your fists again, my fine fellow.”

“I do not want it.”

“And now about my expenses out to England, on purpose to tell you all this. You can go and make her your wife now — or can leave her, just as you please. You couldn’t have done neither if I hadn’t gone out to you.”

“You have got what was promised.”

“But my expenses — going out?”

“I have promised you nothing for your expenses going out — and will pay you nothing.”

“You won’t?”

“Not a dollar more.”

“You won’t?”

“Certainly not. I do not suppose that you expect it for a moment, although you are so persistent in asking for it.”

“And you think you’ve got the better of me, do you? You think you’ve carried me along with you, just to............