"I will be candid with you, Mr. Warburton," he said, after a few preliminary puffs. "I don't anticipate that there will be so much difficulty in tracing this man Jacoby as there might be in the case of a great many other people." "Why should there be any difference in his case?" asked Gerald. "Because he is a man with whom the police have had dealings, directly or indirectly, not on one occasion only, but several times. There is no need for me to say more at present, except this, that such a man is seldom altogether lost sight of, unless he leaves the country and goes to live abroad. Still, I should not advise you to be too sanguine." Gerald promised not to be too sanguine, but still had good hopes of success. He then went into some monetary details with Mr. Byrne, and after that he rose to go. "I dare say you wonder a little to find a man like me living in a dog-kennel of a place like this," said Byrne, with his expansive smile, as he stood for a moment or two airing his back at the fire. "I have seen too much of the world to wonder greatly at anything," said Gerald, ambiguously. "You see, this is how it was," said Byrne, confidentially. "I was Mr. Frodsham's clerk for a great number of years--not that I ever liked the profession, but my bread and cheese was dependent on it, and I was bound to stick to it. By the death of a relative, I came in for ten thousand pounds, and I at once retired to live on my means. I had always been fond of the turf, I had always fancied that I knew something about that noble animal, the horse, and I now determined to turn my knowledge to account. I made up my mind that I would turn my ten thousand pounds into thirty thousand. Sir, I did not turn it into thirty thousand pounds, but into thirty thousand pence. In fact, I lost the whole of it. I was too old to re-enter the profession, and having an income of eighty pounds a year for life, I determined to settle down upon it, and make the best of a bad job. This locality, if not the most genteel in the world, is cheap and salubrious, and here Miriam and I have pitched our tent for a little time, while waiting for summer weather. Relatives, sir, can't live for ever, especially when turned eighty years of age, and asthmatical into the bargain." "At the risk of being thought impertinent, may I ask who Miriam is?" "Miriam, sir, is my daughter--an only child, and a jewel of a girl, though I say it who ought not. Nature, sir, has been liberal to her, having endowed her with beauty and talents that would fit her to adorn a sphere far superior to this one. I hope and trust that there is a brilliant future in store for her."