Tom Bristow did not reach London till long after business hours, but so anxious was he with regard to the matter which had taken him there, that he could not sit down comfortably and wait till morning before beginning his inquiries. After spending ten minutes at his hotel he took a hansom and drove off at once to the offices of the Alcazar Mining Company. The private watchman whose duty it was to look after the premises at night at once supplied him with Mr. Bird’s address, and half an hour later Tom found himself in the neighbourhood of the Regent’s Park. Mr. Bird’s house was readily found, but Mr. Bird himself was not at home, as a rough-looking man with a short pipe in his mouth who, somewhat to Tom’s surprise, answered his impatient knock, at once told him. “Where is Mr. Bird, and when can I see him?” asked Tom. “As to where he is—I should say that by this time he’s some hundreds of miles on his way to America or Australia. As to when you can see him—why you can see him when you can catch him, and not before.” “Then he’s gone?” said Tom incredulously. “Yes, sir, he’s gone. The nest’s empty and the bird’s flown,” added the man with a grin at his own witticism; “and the whole blessed concern has gone to smash.” “And the Squire will expect a telegram from me to-night!” muttered Tom. CHAPTER XII. FOOTSTEPS IN THE ROOM During the few months that elapsed between the murder of Percy Osmond and the arrival of General St. George in England, Park Newton had been shut up, Pearce, the old family butler, being left as custodian of the house. Of the former establishment he was allowed to retain his niece, Miss Piper, who had been still-room maid, and Finch, formerly a footman, but afterwards promoted to be Mr. Dering’s body-servant; together with a woman or two to do the rough work of the house. When the General fixed his home at Park Newton these people were all retained in their places, but their numbers were augmented by eight or ten more. All his life the General had been used to be waited upon by a number of people, and he could not quite get out of the way of it even in England. On a certain wintry evening early in the new year, Finch and Miss Piper were sitting in the drawing-room toasting their toes before a seasonable fire. Between them was a small table on which stood a decanter of Madeira and two glasses, together with a dish of apples, nuts, and oranges. The family had gone out to dinner, and would not be home till late; Mr. Pearce had driven into Duxley to pay the tradesmen’s accounts, and for the time being Mr. Finch and his fair companion commanded the situation. Miss Piper wore a dress of rustling plum-coloured silk. At her elbow was a smelling-bottle and a lace-edged handkerchief. Mr. Finch, with one of General St. George’s snuffboxes by his side, was lounging in his easy-chair, with all the graceful nonchalance of an old club-man who has just partaken of an excellent dinner.