My Press work I had been accustomed to do at office, but this, which was to be based upon the contents of certain ponderous black-lettered tomes which Jones had been collecting for ages past, must be carried on at home, and the noisy, wearisome day gave me no time for reflection, and left me without energy to labour at night. I was about to resign the task in despair—to tell Jones to give it to some more capable or more fortunate labourer in the wide field of speculation—when Fate came to my rescue in the person of the Hon. Captain Rivers, Lord Seaborne’s son. ‘My dad’s in an awful way about his ward, young Cockleboat,’ he remarked to me, in his friendly manner, ‘and he wants your assistance, Trueman, if you’ll give it him.’ ‘Why, what’s the matter, Captain Rivers?’ ‘Haven’t you heard? Cockleboat’s made a fool of himself. He fell in love with a nursemaid, or a barmaid, or some such sort of person—he, with his twenty thousand a-year in prospect; and when the governor remonstrated with him—told him ’twas nonsense and couldn’t be, and all that sort of thing, he actually ran away!’ ‘Left Lord Seaborne’s house?’ ‘Of course, and without a word of explanation. Now, dad doesn’t want to make the affair public, you know, unless it becomes necessary, so he hasn’t said a word to the police; but he wants you to find out where Cockleboat is—you’re so clever at that sort of thing—and just bring him home again.’ ‘An easy task, certainly. And you don’t even know which way the lad has gone?’ ‘Well, we think we’ve traced him to Norwich, and dad thought if you wouldn’t mind going up there for a bit, and keeping your eyes open; of course we should make it worth your while, you know, you might hear something of the young scamp for us.’ ‘What on earth can be his motive for leaving home?’ ‘Well, perhaps the lady lives up that way, or Julian may have got it into his head that he’ll work to support her. He is but twenty last birthday, and will not be of age, by his father’s will, for the next five years—very lucky for him, as it’s turned out, that he will not be.’ ‘True. I think I remember seeing the lad at Lady Godiva’s last season. Didn’t he act there in some private theatricals or charades?’ ‘I believe he did. Now, Trueman, what’s your decision? Will you go to Norwich for us or not?’ ‘I will start to-morrow if your father wishes it.’