Godfrey having telegraphed that he must remain in town, Warburton soon joined him.  His partner was more cheerful and sanguine than ever; he had cleared off numberless odds and ends of business; there remained little to be done before the day, a week hence, appointed for the signature of the new deed, for which purpose Applegarth would come to London.  Mr. Turnbull, acting with his wonted caution, had at length concluded the sale of Mrs. Warburton’s property, and on the day after his return, Will received from St. Neots a letter containing a cheque for four thousand pounds!  All his own available capital was already in the hands of Sherwood; a sum not much greater in amount than that invested by his mother and sister.  Sherwood, for his part, put in sixteen thousand, with regrets that it was all he had at command just now; before long, he might see his way greatly to increase their capital, but they had enough for moderate enterprise in the meanwhile.

Not half an hour after the post which brought him the cheque, Warburton was surprised by a visit from his friend.

“I thought you wouldn’t have left home yet,” said Godfrey, with a nervous laugh.  “I had a letter from Applegarth last night, which I wanted you to see at once.”

He handed it, and Will, glancing over the sheet, found only an unimportant discussion of a small detail.

“Well, that’s all right,” he said, “but I don’t see that it need have brought you from Wimbledon to Chelsea before nine o’clock in the morning.  Aren’t you getting a little overstrung, old man?”

Godfrey looked it.  His face was noticeably thinner than a month ago, and his eyes had a troubled fixity such as comes of intense preoccupation.

“Daresay I am,” he admitted with a show of careless good-humour.  “Can’t get much sleep lately.”

“But why?  What the deuce is there to fuss about?  Sit down and smoke a cigar.  I suppose you’ve had breakfast?”

“No ­yes, I mean, yes, of course, long ago.”

Will did not believe the corrected statement.  He gazed at his friend curiously and with some anxiety.

“It’s an unaccountable thing that you should fret your gizzard out about this new affair, which seems all so smooth, when you took the Ailie Street worries without turning a hair.”

“Stupid ­nerves out of order,” muttered Godfrey, as he crossed, uncrossed, recrossed his legs, and bit at a cigar, as if he meant to breakfast on it.  “I must get away for a week or two as soon as we’ve signed.”

“Yes, but look here.”  Warburton stood before him, hands on hips, regarding him gravely, and speaking with decision.  “I don’t quite understand you.  You’re not like yourself.  Is there anything you’re keeping from me?”

“Nothing ­nothing whatever, I assure you, Warburton.”

But Will was only half satisfied.

“You have no doubts of Applegarth?”

“Doubts!” cried the other.  “Not a shadow of doubt of any sort, I declare and protest.  No, no; it’s entirely my own idiotic excitability.  I can’t account for it.  Just don’t notice it, there’s a good fellow.”

“There was a pause.  Will glanced again at Applegarth’s note, whilst Sherwood went, as usual, to stand before the bookcase, and run his eye along the shelves.

“Anything new in my way?” he asked.  “I want a good long quiet read.  ­Palgrave’s Arabia!  Where did you pick up that?  One of the most glorious books I know.  That and Layard’s Early Travels sent me to heaven for a month, once upon a time.  You don’t know Layard?  I must give it to you.  The essence of romance!  As good in its way as the Arabian Nights.”

Thus he talked on for a quarter of an hour, and it seemed to relieve him.  Returning to matters of the day, he asked, half abruptly: 

“Have you the St. Neots cheque yet?”

“Came this morning.”

“Payable to Sherwood Brothers, I suppose?” said Godfrey.  “Right.  It’s most convenient so.”

Will handed him the cheque, and he gazed at it as if with peculiar satisfaction.  He sat smiling, cheque in one hand, cigar in the other, until Warburton asked what he was thinking over.

“Nothing ­nothing.  Well, I suppose I’d better take it with me; I’m on my way to the bank.”

As Will watched the little slip of paper disappear into his friend’s pocket-book, he had an unaccountable feeling of disquiet.  Nothing could be more unworthy than distrust of Godfrey Sherwood; nothing less consonant with all his experience of the man; and, had the money been his, he would have handed it over as confidently as when, in fact, dealing with his own capital the other day.  But the sense of responsibility to others was a new thing to which he could not yet accustom himself.  It occurred to him for the first time that there was no necessity for accumulating these funds in the hands of Sherwood; he might just as well have retained his own money and this cheque until the day of the signing of the new deed.  To be sure, he had only to reflect a moment to see the foolishness of his misgiving; yet, had he thought of it before ­

He, too, was perhaps a little overstrung in the nerves.  Not for the first time, he mentally threw a malediction at business, and all its sordid appurtenances.

A change came over Sherwood.  His smile grew more natural; his eye lost its fixity; he puffed at his cigar with enjoyment.

“What news of Franks?” were his next words.

“Nothing very good,” answered Will, frowning.  “He seems to be still playing the fool.  I’ve seen him only once in the last fortnight, and then it was evident he’d been drinking.  I couldn’t help saying a plain word or two, and he turned sullen.  I called at his place last night, but he wasn’t there; his landlady tells me he’s been out of town several times lately, and he’s done no work.”

“Has the girl gone?”

“A week ago.  I have a letter from Ralph Pomfret.  The good old chap worries about this affair; so does Mrs. Pomfret.  He doesn’t say it plainly, but I suspect Franks has been behaving theatrically down at Ashstead; it’s possible he went there in the same state in which I saw him last.  Pomfret would have done well to punch his head, but I’ve no doubt they’ve stroked and patted and poor-fellow’d him ­the very worst thing for Franks.”

“Or for any man,” remarked Sherwood.

“Worse for him than for most.  I wish I had more of the gift of brutality; I see a way in which I might do him good; but it goes against the grain with me.”

“That I can believe,” said Godfrey, with his pleasantest look and nod.

“I was afraid he might somehow scrape together money enough to pursue her to Egypt.  Perhaps he’s trying for that.  The Pomfrets want me to go down to Ashstead and have a talk with them about him.  Whether he managed to see the girl before she left England, I don’t know.”

“After all, he has been badly treated,” said Sherwood sympathetically.

“Well, yes, he has.  But a fellow must have common sense, most of all with regard to women.  I’m rather afraid Franks might think it a fine thing to go to the devil because he’s been jilted.  It isn’t fashionable nowadays; there might seem to be a sort of originality about it.”

They talked for a few minutes of business matters, and Sherwood briskly went his way.

Four days passed.  Warburton paid a visit to the Pomfrets, and had from them a confirmation of all he suspected regarding Norbert Franks.  The artist’s behaviour at Ashstead had been very theatrical indeed; he talked much of suicide, preferably by the way of drink, and, when dissuaded from this, with a burst of tears ­veritable tears ­begged Ralph Pomfret to lend him money enough to go to Cairo; on which point, also, he met with kindliest opposition.  Thereupon, he had raged for half an hour against some treacherous friend, unnamed.  Who this could be, the Pomfrets had no idea.  Warburton, though he affected equal ignorance, could not doubt but that it was himself, and he grew inwardly angry.  Franks had been to Bath, and had obtained a private interview with Winifred Elvan, in which (Winifred wrote to her aunt) he had demeaned himself very humbly and pathetically, first of all imploring the sister’s help with Rosamund, and, when she declared she could do nothing, entreating to be told whether or not he was ousted by a rival.  Rather impatient with the artist’s follies than troubled about his sufferings, Will came home again.  He wrote a brief, not unfriendly letter to Franks, urging him to return to his better mind ­the half-disdainful, half-philosophical resignation which he seemed to have attained a month ago.  The answer to this was a couple of lines; “Thanks.  Your advice, no doubt, is well meant, but I had rather not have it just now.  Don’t let us meet for the present.”  Will shrugged his shoulders, and tried to forget all about the affair.

He did not see Sherwood, but had a note from him written in high spirits.  Applegarth would be in town two days hence, and all three were to dine at his hotel.  Having no occupation, Warburton spent most of his time in walking about London; but these rambles did not give him the wonted pleasure, and though at night he was very tired, he did not sleep well.  An inexplicable nervousness interfered with all his habits of mind and body He was on the point of running down to St. Neots, to get through the last day of intolerable idleness, when the morning post again brought a letter from Sherwood.

“Confound the fellow!” he muttered, as he tore open the envelope.  “What else can he have to say?  No infernal postponement, I hope ­”

He read the first line and drew himself up like a man pierced with pain.

“My dear Warburton” ­thus wrote his partner, in a hand less legible than of wont ­“I have such bad news for you that I hardly know how to tell it.  If I dared, I would come to you at once, but I simply have not the courage to face you until you know the worst, and have had time to get accustomed to it.  It is seven o’clock; an hour ago I learnt that all our money is lost ­all yours, all that from St. Neots, all mine ­every penny I have.  I have been guilty of unpardonable folly ­how explain my behaviour?  The truth is, after the settlement in Little Ailie Street; I found myself much worse off than I had expected.  I went into the money market, and made a successful deal.  Counting on being able to repeat this, I guaranteed the sixteen thousand for Bristol; but the second time I lost.  So it has gone on; all these last weeks I have been speculating, winning and losing.  Last Tuesday, when I came to see you, I had about twelve thousand, and hoped somehow to make up the deficiency.  As the devil would have it, that same morning I met a City acquaintance, who spoke of a great coup to be made by any one who had some fifteen thousand at command.  It meant an immediate profit of 25 per cent.  Like a fool, I was persuaded ­as you will see when I go into details, the thing looked horribly tempting.  I put it all ­every penny that lay at our bank in the name of Sherwood Bros.  And now I learn that the house I trusted has smashed.  It’s in the papers this evening ­Biggles, Thorpe and Biggles ­you’ll see it.  I dare not ask you to forgive me.  Of course I shall at once take steps to raise the money owing to you, and hope to be able to do that soon, but it’s all over with the Bristol affair.  I shall come to see you at twelve to-morrow.

“Yours,

“G.  F. SHERWOOD.”