It was about as complete a floorer as I ever wished to get. All the way along, I had been planning which way to break it to him. I turned from the door, whistling and thinking. Should I go after him to Brighton? I had the money, and the time, why should I not do so? Heaven alone knew how much depended upon Tod's being released from trouble; Heaven alone knew what desperate course he might take in his shame, if not released from it. Dropping a note to Tod, saying I should be out for the day, and getting a porter to take it up, I made the best of my way to the nearest Brighton station, and found a train just starting. Brighton was a large place, and they could not tell me at the Tavistock what hotel Mr. Brandon was staying at; except that one of the waiters "thought" it might be the Old Ship. And that's where I first went, on arrival. No. No one of the name of Brandon was at the Old Ship. So there I was, like an owl in a desert, wondering where to go next. And how many hotels and inns I tried before I found him, it would be impossible to remember now. One of the last was up Kemp Town way--the Royal Crescent Hotel. "Is Mr. Brandon staying here?" "Mr. Brandon of Warwickshire? Yes, sir." It was so very unexpected an answer after all the failures, that I hardly believed my own ears. Mr. Brandon was not well, the waiter added: suffering from cold and sore throat--but he supposed I could see him. I answered that I must see him; I had come all the way from London on purpose. Old Brandon was sitting in a long room, with a bow-window looking out on the sea; some broth at his elbow, and a yellow silk handkerchief resting cornerwise on his head. "Mr. Ludlow, sir," said the waiter. And he dropped the spoon into the broth, and stared at me as if I were an escaped lunatic. "Why!--you! What on earth brings _you_ here, Johnny Ludlow?" To tell him what, was the hardest task I'd ever had in my life. And I did it badly. Sipping spoonfuls of broth and looking hard at me whilst he listened, did not help the process. I don't know how I got it out, or how confused was the way I told him that I wanted a hundred pounds of my own money. "A hundred pounds, eh?" said he. "You are a nice gentleman, Johnny Ludlow!" "I am very sorry, sir, to have to ask it. The need is very urgent, or I should not do so." "What's it for?" questioned he. "I--it is to pay a debt, sir," I answered, feeling my face flush hot. "Whose debt?" By the way he looked at me, I could see that he knew as plainly as though I had told him, that it was not my debt. And yet--but for letting him think it was mine, he might turn a deaf ear to me. Old Brandon finished up his broth, and put the basin down. "You are a clever fellow, Johnny Ludlow, but not quite clever enough to deceive me. You'd no more get into such debt yourself, than I should. I have a better opinion of you than that. Who has sent you here?"