It was on Saturday night that Godfrey Sherwood came at length to Warburton’s lodgings.  Reaching home between twelve and one o’clock Will saw a man who paced the pavement near Mrs. Wick’s door; the man, at sight of him, hastened forward; there were exclamations of surprise and of pleasure.

“I came first of all at nine o’clock,” said Sherwood.  “The landlady said you wouldn’t be back before midnight, so I came again.  Been to the theatre, I suppose?”

“Yes,” answered Will, “taking part in a play called ’The Grocer’s Saturday Night.’

“I’d forgotten.  Poor old fellow!  You won’t have much more of that thank Heaven! ­Are you too tired to talk to-night?”

“No, no; come in.”

The house was silent and dark.  Will struck a match to light the candle placed for him at the foot of the stairs, and led the way up to his sitting-room on the first floor.  Here he lit a lamp, and the two friends looked at each other.  Each saw a change.  If Warburton was thin and heavy-eyed, Sherwood’s visage showed an even more noticeable falling-off in health.

“What’s been the matter with you?” asked Will.  “Your letter said you had had an illness, and you look as if you hadn’t got over it yet.”

“Oh, I’m all right now,” cried the other.  “Liver got out of order ­or the spleen, or something ­I forget.  The best medicine was the news I got about old Strangwyn. ­There, by Jove!  I’ve let the name out.  The wonder is I never did it before, when we were talking.  It doesn’t matter now.  Yes, it’s Strangwyn, the whisky man.  He’ll die worth a million or two, and Ted is his only son.  I was a fool to lend that money to Ted, but we saw a great deal of each other at one time, and when he came asking for ten thousand ­a mere nothing for a fellow of his expectations ­nobody thought his father could live a year, but the old man has held out all this time, and Ted, the rascal, kept swearing he couldn’t pay the interest on his debt.  Of course I could have made him; but he knew I shouldn’t dare to risk the thing coming to his father’s ears.  I’ve had altogether about three hundred pounds, instead of the four hundred a year he owed me ­it was at four per cent.  Now, of course, I shall get all the arrears ­but that won’t pay for all the mischief that’s been done.”

“Is it certain,” asked Will, “that Strangwyn will pay?”

“Certain?  If he doesn’t I sue him.  The case is plain as daylight.”

“There’s no doubt that he’ll have his father’s money?”

“None whatever.  For more than a year now, he’s been on good terms with the old man.  Ted is a very decent fellow, of his sort.  I don’t say that I care as much for him now as I used to; we’ve both of us altered; but his worst fault is extravagance.  The old man, it must be confessed, isn’t very good form; he smells rather of the distillery; but Ted Strangwyn might come of the best family in the land.  Oh, you needn’t have the least anxiety.  Strangwyn will pay, principal and interest, as soon as the old man has retired; and that may happen any day, any hour. ­How glad I am to see you again, Will!  I’ve known one or two plucky men, but no one like you.  I couldn’t have gone through it; I should have turned coward after a month of that.  Well, it’s over, and it’ll be something to look back upon.  Some day, perhaps, you’ll amuse your sister by telling her the story.  To tell you the truth, I couldn’t bear to come and see you; I should have been too miserably ashamed of myself. ­And not a soul has found you out, all this time?”

“No one that I know of.”

“You must have suffered horribly from loneliness. ­But I have things to tell you, important things.”  He waved his arm.  “Not to-night; it’s too late, and you look tired to death.”

“Tell on,” said Warburton.  “If I went to bed I shouldn’t sleep ­where are you staying?”

“Morley’s Hotel.  Not at my own expense,” Sherwood added hastily.  “I’m acting as secretary to a man ­a man I got to know in Ireland.  A fine fellow!  You’ll know him very soon.  It’s about him that I want to tell you.  But first of all, that idea of mine about Irish eggs.  The trouble was I couldn’t get capital enough.  My cousin Hackett risked a couple of hundred pounds; it was all lost before the thing could really be set going.  I had a bad time after that, Will, a bad time, I tell you.  Yet good results came of it.  For two or three months I lived on next to nothing ­a few pence a day, all told.  Of course, if I had let Strangwyn know how badly off I was, he’d have sent a cheque; but I didn’t feel I had any right to his money, it was yours, not mine.  Besides, I said to myself that, if I suffered, it was only what I deserved; I took it as a sort of expiation of the harm I’d done.  All that time I was in Dublin, I tried to get employment but nobody had any use for me ­until at last, when I was all but dying of hunger, somebody spoke to me of a certain Milligan, a young and very rich man living in Dublin.  I resolved to go and see him, and a lucky day it was.  You remember Conolly ­Bates’s traveller?  Well, Milligan is just that man, in appearance; a thorough Irishman, and one of the best hearted fellows that ever lived.  Though he’s rich I found him living in a very plain way, in a room which looked like a museum, full of fossils, stuffed birds and animals, queer old pictures, no end of such things.  Well, I told him plainly who I was, and where I was; and almost without thinking, he cried out ­’What could be simpler?  Come and be my secretary.’ ­’You want a secretary?’ ­’I hadn’t thought of it,’ said Milligan, ’but now it strikes me it’s just what I do want.  I knew there was something.  Yes, yes, come and be my secretary; you’re just the man.’  He went on to tell me he had a lot of correspondence with sellers of curiosities, and it bored him to write the letters.  Would I come for a couple of hours a day?  He’d pay me twenty pounds a month.  You may suppose I wasn’t long in accepting.  We began the next day, and in a week’s time we were good friends.  Milligan told me that he’d always had weak health, and he was convinced his life had been saved by vegetarianism.  I myself wasn’t feeling at all fit just then; he persuaded me to drop meat, and taught me all about the vegetarian way of living.  I hadn’t tried it for a month before I found the most wonderful results.  Never in my life had I such a clear mind, and such good spirits.  It remade me.”

“So you’ve come to London to hunt for curios?” interposed Will.

“No, no; let me go on.  When I got to know Milligan well, I found that he had a large estate somewhere in Connaught.  And, as we talked, an idea came to me.”  Again he sprang up from his chair. “’If I were a landowner on that scale,’ I said, ’do you know what I should do ­I should make a vegetarian colony; a self-supporting settlement of people who ate no meat, drank no alcohol, smoked no tobacco; a community which, as years went on, might prove to the world that there was the true ideal of civilised life ­health of mind and of body, true culture, true humanity!’” The eyes glowed in his fleshless, colourless face; he spoke with arm raised, head thrown back ­the attitude of an enthusiastic preacher.  “Milligan caught at the idea ­caught at it eagerly.  ‘There’s something fine in that!’ he said.  ’Why shouldn’t it be done?’ ‘You’re the man that could do it,’ I told him.  ’You’d be a benefactor to the human race.  Isolated examples are all very well, but what we want is an experiment on a large scale, going on through more than one generation.  Let children be born of vegetarian parents, brought up as vegetarians, and this in conditions of life every way simple, natural, healthy.  This is the way to convert the world.’  So that’s what we’re working at now, Milligan and I. Of course there are endless difficulties; the thing can’t be begun in a hurry; we have to see no end of people, and correspond with the leaders of vegetarianism everywhere.  But isn’t it a grand idea?  Isn’t it worth working for?”

Warburton mused, smiling.

“I want you to join us,” said Sherwood abruptly.

“Ho, ho!  That’s another matter.”

“I shall bring you books to read.”

“I’ve no time.  I’m a grocer.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Sherwood.  “In a few days you’ll be an independent man. ­Yes, yes, I know that you’ll have only a small capital, when things are settled; but it’s just people with a small capital that we want to enlist; the very poor and the well-to-do will be no use to us.  It’s too late to-night to go into details.  We have time to talk, plenty of time.  That you will join us, I feel sure.  Wait till you’ve had time to think about it.  For my own part, I’ve found the work of my life, and I’m the happiest man living!”

He walked round and round the table, waving his arms, and Warburton, after regarding him curiously, mused again, but without a smile.