“Oh, yes, Pawson, I see—­see it all clear as day,” interrupted St. George—­“have been seeing it for some months past, although neither you nor Gadgem seem to have been aware of that fact.”  This came with so grave a tone that Pawson raised his eyes inquiringly.  “And who is this man,” Temple went on, “who wants to step into my shoes?  Be sure you tell him they are half-soled,” and he held up one boot.  He might want to dance or hunt in them—­and his toes would be out the first thing he knew.”

“He is Mr. Gorsuch’s attorney, sir, a Mr. Fogbin,” Pawson answered, omitting any reference to the boots and still concerned over the gravity of the situation.  “He did some work once for Colonel Rutter, and that’s how Gorsuch got hold of him.  That’s why I suspect the colonel.  This would make the interest sure, you see—­rather a sly game, is it not, sir?  One I did not expect.”

St. George pondered for a moment, and his eye fell on his servant.

“And what will I do with Todd?”

The darky’s eyes had been rolling round in his head as the talk continued, Pawson, knowing how leaky he was, having told him nothing of the impending calamity for fear he would break it to his master in the wrong way.

“I should say take him with you,” came the positive answer.

“Take him with me!  You didn’t think I would be separated from him, did you?” cried St. George, indignantly, the first note of positive anger he had yet shown.

“I didn’t think anything about it, sir,” and he looked at Todd apologetically.

“Well, after this please remember, Mr. Pawson, that where I go Todd goes.”

The darky leaned forward as if to seize St. George’s hand; his eyes filled and his lips began to tremble.  He would rather have died than have left his master.

St. George walked to the door, threw it open, and stood for an instant, his eyes fixed on the bare trees in the park.  He turned and faced the two again: 

“Todd!”

“Yes, Marse George—­” Two hot ragged tears still lingered on the darky’s eyelids.

“To-day is Monday, is it not?—­and to-morrow is boat day?”

“Yes, Marse George,” came the trembling answer.

“All right, Pawson, I’ll go.  Let Talbot Rutter have the rest—­he’s welcome to it.  Now for my cloak, Todd—­so—­and my neckerchief and cane.  Thank you very much, Pawson.  You have been very kind about it all, and I know quite well what it has cost you to tell me this.  You can’t help—­neither can I—­neither, for that matter, can Gorsuch—­nor is it his fault.  It is Rutter’s, and he will one day get his reckoning.  Good-night—­don’t sit up too late.  I am going to Mr. Horn’s to spend the evening.  Walk along with me through the Park, Todd, so I can talk to you.  And, Todd,” he continued when they had entered the path and were bending their steps to the Horn house, “I want you to gather together to-morrow what are left of my clothes and pack them in one of those hair trunks upstairs—­and your own things in another.  Never mind about waiting for the wash.  I’m going down to Aunt Jemima’s myself in the morning and will fix it so she can send the rest to me later on.  I owe her a small balance and must see her once more before I leave.  Now go home and get to bed; you have been losing too much sleep of late.”