“I do not know every friend of Forster’s.  He is a man who picks up his acquaintance in the highways and byways, and drops them when he is tired of them.”

“Will you tell me, on your honour, that you know nothing of this Mr. Holbrook?”

“Certainly.”

Gilbert Fenton gave a weary sigh, and then seated himself silently opposite Mr. Saltram.  He could not afford to doubt this friend of his.  The whole fabric of his life must have dropped to pieces if John Saltram had played him false.  His single venture as a lover having ended in shipwreck, he seemed to have nothing left him but friendship; and that kind of hero-worship which had made his friend always appear to him something better than he really was, had grown stronger with him since Marian’s desertion.

“O Jack,” he said presently, “I could bear anything in this world better than the notion that you could betray me—­that you could break faith with me for the sake of another man.”

“I am not likely to do that.  There is no man upon, this earth I care for very much except you.  I am not a man prone to friendship.  In fact, I am a selfish worthless fellow at the best, Gilbert, and hardly merit your serious consideration.  It would be wiser of you to think of me as I really am, and to think very little of me.”

“You did not show yourself remarkably selfish when you nursed me through that fever, at the hazard of your own life.”

“Pshaw! that was nothing.  I could not have done less in the position in which we two were.  Such sacrifices as those count for very little.  It is when a man’s own happiness is in the scale that the black spot shows itself.  I tell you, Gilbert, I am not worth your friendship.  It would be better for you to go your own way, and have nothing more to do with me.”

Mr. Saltram had said this kind of thing very often in the past, so that the words had no especial significance to Gilbert.  He only thought that his friend was in one of those gloomy moods which were common to him at times.

“I could not do without your friendship, Jack,” he said.  “Remember how barren the world is to me now.  I have nothing left but that.”

“A poor substitute for better things, Gilbert.  I am never likely to be much good to you or to myself.  By the way, have you seen anything lately of that old man you told me about—­Miss Nowell’s grandfather?”

“I saw him the other night.  He is very ill—­dying, I believe.  I have written to Marian to tell her that if she does not come very quickly to see him, there is a chance of her not finding him alive.”

“And she will come of course.”

“I suppose so.  She talked of waiting for her husband’s consent; but she will scarcely do that when she knows her grandfather’s precarious state.  I shall go to Queen Anne’s Court after I leave you, to ascertain if there has been any letter from her to announce her coming.  She is a complete stranger in London, and may be embarrassed if she arrives at the station alone.  But I should imagine her husband would meet her there supposing him to be in town.”