George had got on capitally in his situation. He found the Work remarkably easy, the salary was paid regularly, and he was earning the sweet bread of independence—the first he had ever tasted in his life.

He had some vague idea that he wouldn’t always be a city clerk. He didn’t believe that his father’s temper would last. Eventually, of course, he would be forgiven, the prodigal would return by special invitation, plus a Mrs. Prodigal, the fatted calf would be killed, and George, having proved that he was of some use in the world, and could earn money as well as spend it, would settle down to a country life. Bess’s father would have a nice little cottage somewhere, and everything would come right.

But George was not going to make the first advance. His father had cast him off, and cast off he would remain till he was sent for. He didn’t even let his father know his whereabouts or that he was married. Bess wrote once to her father to say she was in London and well and happy, and she hoped he would have faith in her and believe all she had done was for the best. But she gave no address, for George was determined to cut himself completely adrift from old associations. For the present he was Mr. George Smith, and nothing that concerned Mr. George Heritage concerned him.

Bess was very happy; she would have been happier still if she might have told her father all, looked up with unblushing cheeks in his dear old face and asked his blessing.

That was the one thing denied her. But George did his best to console her, and Bess believed the world did not hold his equal. It seemed sometimes that she was dreaming when her face was pressed close to his, and he kissed her and called her little wife. She dreaded to wake up and find it all unreal.

George was sure that had he chosen from the Belgravian conservatories of rare English girlhood he could not have improved upon his sweet wildflower of the Surrey hills. Bess was not only beautiful and amiable; she was the cleverest little woman in the world. It was a treat to watch her sew a button on. She no sooner took it between her rosy fingers and tickled it gently with the needle than, hey, presto! there it was as firm as a rock. And then her cooking. I should like to know what beautiful young lady of society could have come near Bess in the matter of pie-crust. No duchess in the land could ever hope to equal her haricot mutton; and I’m quite sure that the united efforts of the whole of the upper ten thousand would have failed to make a shilling go as far as Bess could make sixpence go.

One proof of her skill absolutely astonished her husband, he saw a very beautiful bonnet in a shop in Regent’s Street, and he told Bess he should like to buy it for her.

‘You dear old goose,’ said his wife; ‘why, you’d have to pay three guineas for it!’

George whistled. He thought that was a great deal of money for a small feather, a bunch of roses, and a plain straw.

Next morning Bess said to him at breakfast, ‘George, you-wanted to make me a present of a three-guinea bonnet yesterday; give me ten shillings to spend instead.’

There was half a sovereign in Bess’s plump little hand directly. That evening they arranged to go for a stroll to look at the shops. Bess went to put on her bonnet, and when she camc into-the parlour George backed into the fireplace with astonishment.

Bess had on the beautiful three-guinea bonnet!

‘Why, how ever did you get it, my dear?’ he said. ‘It’s-awfully extravagant!’

Bess gave a merry little laugh.

‘How much do you think it cost?’ she said.

‘Why, three guineas, of course,’ said George.

‘Nonsense, you dear old stupid! It cost ten shillings!’

‘Did they let you have it for that after all?’

‘They let me have it? No. I made it myself, and the ten shillings you gave me paid for all the materials.’

‘Wonderful!’ said George. And all that evening as they walked about he felt inclined to stop the Ladies and gentlemen in the street and exclaim, ‘I say, look at this bonnet. Did you ever see anything like it? My wife made it, and it only cost ten shillings. Isn’t she clever?’

George’s respect for his wife increased every day as he saw the marvels her tiny lingers accomplished. He wished Smith & Co. could see her. Once he did go so far as to take Smith & Co. an apple turnover which his wife had made; but it looked so nice that, Smith & Co. (per Mr. Brooks, the manager) not arriving till late, George ate it himself.

On the day following the momentous interview between the partners in the firm of Smith & Co., George presented himself at the office in Gutter Lane.

Mr. Brooks arrived a little later than usual, and busied himself with some papers at his desk for a while.

Just before eleven be took a cheque from his poeket-book, exclaiming, ‘By Jove! Smith, I’d nearly forgotten it!’

‘Forgotten what, sir?’ said George.

‘Why, I received a cheque from Grigg and Limpet yesterday afternoon to buy tallow with for their client on the open market to-day.’

‘It isn’t too late to buy tallow, is it?’ asked George, innocently.

‘No, but they only take gold or notes on the market. You must run and cash this at once and bring the money back here. It’s most important we should operate early.’

George had heard of surgical operations, but operations on the tallow market were mysteries of city life which he had not at present penetrated.

Anxious to acquire information in order to qualify himself for commercial eminence, he was about to question Mr. Brooks when that gentleman cut him short.

‘Take the chcque at once, Smith; be back quickly,’ he said. ‘Hulloa, it’s payable to order! What a nuisance!’

‘It must be endorsed, mustn’t it?’ said George, anxious to show what a lot he knew. In the course of his career he had had many cheques payable to his order, and he knew where to write his name. He wasn’t like that innocent major who, having lived all his life on discount, assured the financial agent who offered to do a three months’ bill for him that he didn’t know how to accept one.

Mr. Brooks recognized George’s business knowledge with a pleasant smile. Yes, it did require the name of Smith and Co. on the back; but, a most unfortunate thing, he had sprained his thumb, and couldn’t write.

‘Here, Smith,’ he said, tossing the cheque across to him, ‘just write Smith and Co. on the back for me, will you?’

George hesitated.

‘Is that correct, sir?’ he asked.

‘Of course it is! Why, what office have you been brought up in? Any clerk can endorse a firm’s signature; it’s quite usual in large firms.’

George coloured to think how he had betrayed his ignorance. He hastened to atone for it by endorsing the cheque ‘Smith and Co.’ at once.

‘That’s it,’ said Mr. Brooks. ‘Now off you go, and make haste back.’

George took the cheque and, buttoning it securely in his breast-pocket, went off to the bank with it.

As he went along he fancied that he was followed. He couldn’t get rid of the idea that a tall dark man with a hook nose was watching him. He put his hand on the pocket containing the cheque and hurried on.

At the bank where he presented the cheque, to his astonishment he saw the tall dark man at another desk, and heard him inquire about opening an account.

The cashier took the cheque, cancelled the signature, and handed George five hundred-pound notes.

The dark man concluded his inquiry, and walked hurriedly out.

A little way from the bank George had another surprise. He ran up against Mr. Brooks.

‘By Jove! Smith,’ exclaimed the manager, ‘we shall be late! I must go straight on to the tallow market. Give me the notes, and go back to the office.’

George handed the notes to the manager, glad to be released of the responsibility of carrying them through the crowded city, and walked leisurely on to the office.

Mr. Brooks was evidently in a hurry. The moment he had the notes in his possession he walked as fast as he could to the Bank of England, and there obtained gold for them.

Two minutes afterwards he was in a hansom cab, being driven rapidly to the other end of London.

George walked on towards the office, and just as he got to Gutter Lane some one tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned, and beheld to his astonishment the same dark face and hook nose that had attracted his attention at the bank.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said the stranger; ‘but have you just presented a cheque at the bank?’

‘Yes,’ said George; ‘why do you ask?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied the stranger. ‘I’m a detective.’

George started and coloured.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘but I really can’t see what that has to do with it.’

‘I’ll tell you. Don’t make a fuss; just listen to me, for what I’m going to say is for your good. I want to save you from a jolly mess.’

What on earth did the man mean? George had plenty of courage, but he really felt alarmed at being talked to like this by a detective.

‘You’re a green un, I can see,’ said the man; ‘and you’ve been made a mug of. You’re mixed up with the awfullest set of swindlers in London. They’ll all be in quod in half an hour; and it’s because I see you’ve been made a mug of I want to give you a chance of getting clear.’

George went hot and cold. Smith and Co. swindlers! A hundred little things, many that he had thought nothing of, now rushed back to his memory. A sudden revelation came, and in a moment the fabric of commercial eminence he had reared for himself fell to the ground.

‘Good heavens!’ he exclaimed, as the situation dawned upon him, ‘I must clear myself, and at once. What can I do?’

‘Take my advice and do nothing. Hook it. I believe you’re innocent, or I shouldn’t have given you this warning. But you wouldn’t be able to prove your innocence to a jury. The gang you’re in is the artfullest in London; they’d lay it all on you, and bring twenty witnesses to prove it. What witnesses to character have you got?’

‘Why, plenty!’ began George. Then suddenly he checked himself. He had been living under a false name. He had left his home in debt and difficulties after quarrelling with his father. How could he allow all this to be known to the world? How could he let his father and the people at home come to a police court, to find him in the dock with a gang of swindlers?

All these considerations flashed through the young man’s brain with lightning rapidity. Then he thought of Bess, and became almost speechless with horror. His position was terrible.

‘I don’t know why you tell me this,’ he gasped, seizing the dark man’s arm; ‘but for God’s sake tell me what to do? I have a wife and an old father; for their sakes I would do anything rather than have my name dragged before the world in a case like this.’

‘That’s reasonable,’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry for you, and I believe in you. I ought to arrest you, but I shan’t. I’m going to let you get clear away, and I’ll give the missus the tip too, and she can follow at once. Where do you live?’

George never stopped to ask himself if this sudden interest in his affairs on the part of a stranger could be genuine. He saw the facts in their ghastly reality, and he clutched at this small offer of help as a drowning man clutches at the first thing he sees.

George pulled out a letter from his pocket, and scribbled his address on it in pencil. Underneath he wrote:

‘Dear Bess, do what this gentleman tells you. Bring enough for a day or two’s journey and come to me at once. Don’t be frightened. It’s only a matter of business.’

‘Take this,’ he said, giving it to his unknown friend; ‘and tell me where to go.’

‘Go to some railway station.’

‘Waterloo?’ said George. ‘Will that do?’

‘Capitally! Your wife shall be at Waterloo in a couple of hours. Say the booking-office. Main line. If you’ll take my advice you’ll leave the country till this affair is over. Mind, whatever happens, you must not blab about me giving you the tip. It would ruin me. Swear!’

‘I give you my word of honour as a gentleman,’ stammered the agonized man. ‘I owe you more than I can ever repay.’

‘I’m satisfied,’ said the dark man. ‘I can see you are a gentleman, and your word is enough.’

With a parting admonition to George to ‘keep his pecker up and show a clean pair of heels,’ the mysterious friend turned on his heel and walked rapidly away, leaving the young man in a state of mind almost impossible to describe.

Mortification, rage, shame, all struggled for mastery in his breast, and all gave way before the horror with which he contemplated the consequences to the girl he had brought from her happy home and wedded in secret, should he be arrested and charged with being one of a gang of swindlers. He was innocent, he knew; but to prove it he would have to drag his honoured name through the mire; he would have to proclaim to the world the whole story of his debts and difficulties, his quarrels with his father, and his runaway marriage with a lodge-keeper’s daughter.

No, he couldn’t face that. It might be cowardly, but once he had Bess safe in his keeping again, he would take the detective’s advice and avoid scandal by timely flight.

The hue and cry for the missing George Smith might be raised, but what of that? Who would connect George Smith, the humble clerk who lodged at Duck’s, with George Heritage, Squire Heritage’s son and heir?