Philip was thrown into the sea on a Tuesday. Jocky Mason reached London on Wednesday, and kept his appointment with Inspector Bradley on Thursday evening.
The inspector received him graciously, thus chasing from the ex-convict's mind a lurking suspicion that matters were awry. There is a curious sympathy between the police and well-known criminals. They meet with friendliness and exchange pleasantries, as a watchdog might fraternize with a wolf in off hours.
But Mason had no responsive smile or ready quip.
"What's up?" he demanded, morosely. "You sent for me. Here I am. I would have brought my ticket sooner if you hadn't written."
"All right, Mason. Keep your wool on. Do you remember Superintendent Robinson?"
"Him that was inspector in Whitechapel when I was put away? Rather."
"Well, some friends of yours have been inquiring from him as to your whereabouts. He sent a message round, and I promised that you should meet them if you showed up. I was half afraid you had bolted to the States."
"Oh, yes, you have--very dear friends, indeed."
He glared around the roomy police office, but it was only tenanted by policemen attending to various books or chatting quietly across a huge counter.
His surly attitude did not diminish the inspector's kindliness.
"Don't be so doubtful on that point, Mason. Have you no children?"
Something in the police officer's eyes gave the man a clew. His swarthy face flushed and his hands clinched.
"Yes," he said, huskily. "I left two boys. Their mother died. They were lost. I have looked for them everywhere."
"Go into that room," he said, quietly, "and you will find them. They are waiting there for you."
Mason crossed the sanded floor like one walking in his sleep. He experienced no emotion. He was a man stunned for the nonce.
He opened the door of the waiting room, and entered cautiously. He might have expected a hoax, a jest, from his attitude.
Two stalwart young men were standing there talking. Their chat ceased as he appeared. For an appreciable time father and sons looked at each other with the curiosity of strangers.
He knew them first. He saw himself, no less than their unfortunate and suffering mother, in their erect figures, the contour of their pleasant faces.