"I?" A singular glint shot from Steele's gaze. "No, no, my man, I'm not
seeking him for that. But he didn't say where he expected to go?"

"Not he."

"Nor what had brought him to London?"

"I expect it was 'omesickness, sir. 'E's been a bad lot, but 'e has a
heart, arter all. It was to see 'is mother 'e came back; the old woman
drew 'im 'ere. You see 'e had written 'er from foreign parts, but could
never 'ear; 'cause she had moved; used to keep a place where a woman was
found--"

"Dead?"

"Murdered!" said the man; John Steele was silent. "And she, 'is mother
'ad gone, 'aving saved a bit, out into a peaceable-like little 'amlet,
where there weren't no bobbies, only instead, bits of flower gardens and
bright bloomin' daffy-down-dillies. But, blime me, when Tom come and
found out where she 'ad changed to, if she 'adn't gone and shuffled off,
and all 'e 'ad for 'is pains was the sight of a mound in the
churchyard."

"Yes; she's buried," said John Steele thoughtfully, "and all she might
have told about the woman who was--murdered, is buried with her."

"But she did tell, sir; at the time," quickly, "of the trial."

"True." The visitor's tone changed. "If you can find Tom, give him this