s secret had been divined, said quickly, rather as an
exclamation than interrogation:

'How on earth did you know that!' His companion, taking it as a query,
answered:

'Sir, at your age and with your strength life should be a joy; and yet
you are sad: Companionship should be a pleasure; yet you prefer solitude.
That you are brave and unselfish I know; I have reason, thank God! to
know it. That you are kindly and tolerant is apparent from your bearing
to my little child this morning; as well as your goodness of last night,
the remembrance of which her mother and I will bear to our graves; and to
me now. I have not lived all these years without having had trouble in
my own heart; and although the happiness of late years has made it dim,
my gratitude to you who are so sad brings it all back to me.' He bowed,
and Harold, wishing to avoid speaking of his sorrow, said:

'You are quite right so far as I have a sorrow; and it is because of it I
have turned my back on home. Let it rest at that!' His companion bowed
gravely and went on.

'I take it that you are going to begin life afresh in the new country. In
such case I have a proposition to make. I have a large business; a
business so large that I am unable to manage it all myself. I was
intending that when I arrived at home I would set about finding a
partner. The man I want is not an ordinary man. He must have brains and
strength and daring.' He paused. Harold felt what was coming, but
realised, as he jumped at the conclusion, that it would not do for him to
take for granted that he was the man sought. He waited; Mr. Stonehouse
went on:

'As to brains, I am prepared to take the existence of such on my own
judgment. I have been reading men, and in this aspect specially, all my
life. The man I have thought of has brains. I am satisfied of that,
without proof. I have proof of the other qualities.' He paused again;
as Harold said nothing he continued in a manner ill at ease:

'My difficulty is to make the proposal to the man I want. It is so
difficult to talk business to a man to whom you under great obligation;
to whom you owe everything. He might take a friendly overture ill.'
There was but one thing to be said and Harold said it. His heart warmed
to the kindly old man and he wished to spare him pain; even if he could
not accept him proposition:

'He couldn't take it ill; unless he was an awful bounder.'

'It was you I thought of!'

'I thought