This master-stroke virtually ended the battle.  Henry said nothing, but the signs of giving way were manifest in him, so manifest that Mrs. Little became quite impatient for the doctor’s arrival to crown all.

He drove up to the door at last, and Henry ran out and brought him in.  He looked pale, and sat down exhausted.

Mrs. Little restrained her impatience, and said, “We are selfish creatures to send you on our business before you are half well.”

“I am well enough in health,” said he, “but I am quite upset.”

“What is the matter?  Surely you have not failed?  Guy does not refuse his forgiveness?”

“No, it is not that.  Perhaps, if I had been in time—­but the fact is, Guy Raby has left England.”

“What, for good?  Impossible!”

“Who can tell?  All I know is that he has sold his horses, discharged his servants all but one, and gone abroad without a word.  I was the friend of his youth—­his college chum; he must be bitterly wounded to go away like that, and not even let me know.”

Mrs. Little lifted up her hands.  “What have we done? what have we done?  Wounded! no wonder.  Oh, my poor, wronged, insulted brother!”

She wept bitterly, and took it to heart so, it preyed on her health and spirits.  She was never the same woman from that hour.

While her son and her friend were saying all they could to console her, there appeared at the gate the last man any of them ever expected to see—­Mr. Bolt.

Henry saw him first, and said so.

“Keep him out,” cried the doctor, directly.  “Don’t let that bragging fool in to disturb our sorrow.”  He opened the door and told the servant-girl to say “Not at home.”

“Not at home,” said the girl.

“That’s a lie!” shouted Bolt, and shoved her aside and burst into the room.  “None of your tricks on travelers,” said he, in his obstreperous way.  “I saw your heads through the window.  Good news, my boy!  I’ve done the trick.  I wouldn’t say a word till it was all settled, for Brag’s a good dog, but Holdfast’s a better.  I’ve sold my building-site to some gents that want to speculate in a church, and I’ve made five hundred pounds profit by the sale.  I’m always right, soon or late.  And I’ve bought a factory ready made—­the Star Works; bought ’em, sir, with all the gear and plant, and working hands.”

“The Star Works?  The largest but one in Hillsborough!”

“Ay, lad.  Money and pluck together, they’ll beat the world.  We have got a noble place, with every convenience.  All we have got to do now is to go in and win.”

Young Little’s eyes sparkled.  “All right,” said he, “I like this way the best.”

Mrs. Little sighed.

CHAPTER XXX.

In that part of London called “the City” are shady little streets, that look like pleasant retreats from the busy, noisy world; yet are strongholds of business.