LITMIR.BIZ

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the room, called to the landlady that he was going, and let himself out.

      Scarcely had he walked half a dozen yards, when he stood face to face with Franks.

      "Ah! Here you are! I waited as long as I could—"

      "I'll walk with you," said the artist, turning on his heels.

      He had shaken hands but limply. His look avoided Warburton's. His speech was flat, wearied.

      "What's wrong, Franks?"

      "As you've been in the studio, I daresay you know."

      "I saw something that surprised me."

      "Did it surprise you?" asked Norbert, in a half-sullen undertone.

      "What do you mean by that?" said Will with subdued resentment.

      The rain had ceased; a high wind buffeted them as they went along the almost deserted street. The necessity of clutching at his hat might have explained Norbert's silence for a moment; but he strode on without speaking.

      "Of course, if you don't care to talk about it," said Will, stopping short.

      "I've been walking about all day," Franks replied; "and I've got hell inside me; I'd rather not have met you to-night, that's the truth. But I can't let you go without asking a plain question. Did it surprise you to see that portrait smashed?"

      "Very much. What do you hint at?"

      "I had a letter this morning from Rosamund, saying she couldn't marry me, and that all must be over between us. Does that surprise you?"

      "Yes, it does. Such a possibility had never entered my mind."

      Franks checked his step, just where the wind roared at an unprotected corner.

      "I've no choice but to believe you," he said, irritably. "And no doubt I'm making a fool of myself. That's why I shot out of your way this afternoon—I wanted to wait till I got calmer. Let's say good-night."

      "You're tired out," said Warburton. "Don't go any farther this way, but let me walk back with you—I won't go in. I can't leave you in this state of mind. Of course I begin to see what you mean, and a wilder idea never got into any man's head. Whatever the explanation of what has happened, I have nothing to do with it."

      "You say so, and I believe you."

      "Which means, that you don't. I shan't cut up rough; you're not yourself, and I can make all allowances. Think over what I've said, and come and have another talk. Not to-morrow; I have to go down to St. Neots. But the day after, in the evening."

      "Very well. Good-night."

      This time they did not shake hands. Franks turned abruptly, with a wave of the arm, and walked off unsteadily, like a man in liquor. Observing this, Warburton said to himself that not improbably the artist had been trying to drown his misery, which might account for his strange delusion. Yet this explanation did not put Will's mind at ease. Gloomily he made his way homeward through the roaring night.

      CHAPTER 9

      Ten o'clock next morning saw him alighting from the train at St. Neots. A conveyance for which he had telegraphed awaited him at the station; its driver, a young man of his own age (they had known each other from boyhood), grinned his broadest as he ran toward Will on the platform, and relieved him of his bag.

      "Well, Sam, how goes it? Everybody flourishing?—Drive first to Mr. Turnbull's office."

      Mr. Turnbull was a grey-headed man of threescore, much troubled with lumbago, which made him stoop as he walked. He had a visage of extraordinary solemnity, and seemed to regard every one, no matter how prosperous or cheerful, with anxious commiseration. At the sight of Will, he endeavoured to smile, and his handshake, though the flabbiest possible, was meant for a cordial response to the young man's heartiness.

      "I'm on my way to The Haws, Mr. Turnbull, and wanted to ask if you could come up and see us this evening?"

      "Oh, with pleasure," answered the lawyer, his tone that of one invited to a funeral. "You may count on me."

      "We're winding up at Sherwood's. I don't mean in bankruptcy; but that wouldn't be far off if we kept going."

      "Ah! I can well understand that," said Mr. Turnbull, with a gleam of satisfaction. Though a thoroughly kind man, it always brightened him to hear of misfortune, especially when he had himself foretold it; and he had always taken the darkest view of Will's prospects in Little Ailie Street.

      "I have a project I should like to talk over with you—"

      "Ah?" said the lawyer anxiously.

      "As it concerns my mother and Jane—"

      "Ah?" said Mr. Turnbull, with profound despondency.

      "Then we shall expect you.—Will it rain, do you think?"

      "I fear so. The glass is very low indeed. It wouldn't surprise me if we had rain through the whole month of August."

      "Good Heavens! I hope not," replied Will laughing.

      He drove out of the town again, in a different direction, for about a mile. On rising ground, overlooking the green valley of the Ouse, stood a small, plain, solidly-built house, sheltered on the cold side by a row of fine hawthorns, nearly as high as the top of its chimneys. In front, bordered along the road by hollies as impenetrable as a stone wall, lay a bright little flower garden. The Haws, originally built for the bailiff of an estate, long since broken up, was nearly a century old. Here Will's father was born, and here, after many wanderings, he had spent the greater part of his married life.

      "Sam," said Will, as they drew up at the gate, "I don't think I shall pay for this drive. You're much richer than I am."

      "Very good, sir," was the chuckling reply, for Sam knew he always had to expect a joke of this kind from young Mr. Warburton. "As you please, sir."

      "You couldn't lend me half-a-crown, Sam?"

      "I daresay I could, sir, if you really wanted it."

      "Do then."

      Will pocketed the half-crown, jumped off the trap, and took his bag.

      "After all, Sam, perhaps I'd better pay. Your wife might grumble. Here you are."

      He handed two shillings and sixpence in small change, which Sam took and examined with a grin of puzzlement.

      "Well, what's the matter? Don't you say thank you, nowadays?"

      "Yes, sir—thank you, sir—it's all right, Mr. Will."

      "I should think it is indeed. Be here to-morrow morning, to catch the 6.30 up train, Sam."

      As Will entered the garden, there came forward a girl of something and twenty, rather short, square shouldered, firmly planted on her feet, but withal brisk of movement; her face was remarkable for nothing but a grave good-humour. She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and her gardening gloves showed how she was occupied. Something of shyness appeared in the mutual greeting of brother and sister.

      "Of course, you got my letter this morning?" said Will.

      "Yes."

      "Mr. Turnbull is coming up to-night."

      "I'm glad of that," said Jane thoughtfully, rubbing her gloves together to shake off moist earth.

      "Of course he'll prophesy disaster, and plunge you both into the depths of discouragement. But I don't mind that. I feel so confident myself that I want some one to speak on the other side. He'll have to make inquiries, of course.—Where's mother?"

      The question was answered by Mrs. Warburton herself, who at that moment came forth from the house; a tall, graceful woman, prematurely white-headed, and enfeebled by ill-health. Between her and Jane there was little resemblance of feature; Will, on the other hand, had inherited her oval face, arched brows and sensitive mouth. Emotion had touched her cheek with the faintest glow, but ordinarily it was pale as her hand. Nothing, however, of the invalid declared itself in her tone or language; the voice, soft and musical, might have been that of a young woman, and its vivacity was only less than that which marked the speech of her son.

      "Come

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