Free Escape From Home by Avi Page A

bowler as if the answer lay there. “My lady,” he said, lifting his birdlike eyes, “my lord, sir, in these matters—which are delicate indeed—much depends on two factors.”
    â€œWe can pay you what you need,” Albert put in.
    â€œThank you, sir. I have no doubt as to your liberality. But if you permit me, sir, the two factors I was referring to are, one, speed, and two, information. May I ask when the boy left?”
    â€œThis very afternoon.”
    â€œYou have acted quickly. That bodes well. As for information …”
    Lady Kirkle tensed. “What kind of information?”
    â€œYou see, my lady,” Mr. Pickler said after a quick peek into his bowler, “my success in finding those who absent themselves from good homes depends upon my knowledge of the circumstances that led to the young person’s unfortunate departure. I should know what he looks like. What he was wearing. His character. Finally, sir—and here I fear I must intrude—I must know the … cause.”
    A deep silence filled the room.
    On the ottoman. Lady Kirkle rustled her skirts. “You will have a full description of him,” she offered.
    â€œMy lady,” Mr. Pickler replied softly, “that will be appreciated. But with all due respect, a description, though vital, will not alone suffice.”
    Albert burst forth. “He’s a hotheaded, impudent—”
    â€œAlbert!” Lord Kirkle barked. Albert stepped back and glowered. Lady Kirkle watched her husband. His lordship was staring at the fire again. Suddenly, he swung about. “Very well, Mr. Pickler. You shall have a full explanation.”
    â€œMy lord,” Mr. Pickler returned, “I am humbled by your trust.”
    â€œAlbert, Beatrice,” Lord Kirkle said briskly, “please leave me alone with Mr. Pickler.”
    Albert looked at his mother. She made a nod. “Perhaps,” Albert suggested to his father, “I should stay and—”
    â€œAlbert,” Lord Kirkle snapped, “you will leave as I asked!”
    â€œMy dear James …,” his wife protested.
    â€œI prefer to speak to Mr. Pickler alone ,” his lordship said, his voice quivering with anger. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.
    Albert opened the door. With an agitated rustling of her skirts, Lady Kirkle gathered herself up and swept out of the room. A pouting Albert followed her.
    In the study, the only sound was the occasional settling of the burning coal in the grate. Mr. Pickler, eyes downcast, waited patiently while Lord Kirkle resumed his pacing. Finally, his lordship dropped himself into the chair behind his table.
    Fussing nervously, he pulled open the table drawer. For a few moments he gazed absentmindedly at the pile of money that lay there. Suddenly he cried, “The Irish rents!” and plucked up the notes and began counting them rapidly. “My God!” he cried when he had tallied the pile a second time. In horror, he flung the bills down, sat back in his chair, and pressed his eyes with his hands.
    â€œMy lord,” Mr. Pickler inquired—but only after making a quick search of his bowler—“did the boy take some money?”
    For a long time Lord Kirkle made no reply. Then he whispered, “One thousand pounds.”
    Mr. Pickler was speechless.
    Lord Kirkle sat up stiffly and, almost savagely, said, “Mr. Pickler, you may take a seat. I shall endeavor to give the full particulars. It is not a happy story.”
    â€œMy lord,” Mr. Pickler said, “if I have learned one thing from my efforts to find and return wayward youths who leave good homes, it is this: Young people do not have the best judgment.”
    â€œI want him returned, Mr. Pickler,” Lord Kirkle said with a voice that came from deep within him. “I want my boy home!”
    â€œMy lord, I have no doubt we shall achieve that. May I ask some questions?”
    â€œYou