They parted at last, John Saltram having faithfully promised his friend to work no more that night, and they met at Euston Square early the next morning for the journey to Liverpool.  Gilbert had never found his friend’s company more delightful than on this last day.  It seemed as if John Saltram put away every thought of self in his perfect sympathy with the thoughts and feelings of the traveller.  They dined together, and it was dusk when they wished each other good-bye on the deck of the vessel.

“Good-bye, Gilbert, and God bless you!  If—­if anything should happen to me—­if I should have gone to the bad utterly before you come back, you must try to remember our friendship of the past.  Think that I have loved you very dearly—­as well as one man ever loved another, perhaps.”

“My dear John, you have no need to tell me to think that.  Nothing can ever weaken the love between us.  And you are not likely to go to the bad.  Good bye, dear old friend.  I shall remember you every day of my life.  You are second only to Marian in my heart.  I shall write you an account of my proceedings, and shall expect to hear from you.  Once more, good bye.”

The bell rang.  Gilbert Fenton and his friend shook hands in silence for the last time, and in the next moment John Saltram ran down the steps to the little steamer which had brought them out to the larger vessel.  The sails spread wide in the cool evening wind, and the mighty ship glided away into the dusk.  John Saltram’s last look showed him his friend’s face gazing down upon him over the bulwarks full of trust and affection.

He went back to London by the evening express, and reached his chambers at a late hour that night.  There had been some attempt at tidying the rooms in his absence; but his books and papers had been undisturbed.  Some letters were lying on the desk, amongst them one in a big scrawling hand that was very familiar to Mr. Saltram, the envelope stamped “Lidford.”  He tore this open eagerly.  It was from Sir David Forster.

“DEAR SALTRAM” (wrote the Baronet),—­“What do you mean by this iniquitous conduct?  You only obtained my consent to your hurried departure the other day on condition you should come back in a week, yet there are no signs of you.  Foljambe and the lawyer are gone, and I am alone with Harker, whose stupidity is something marvellous.  I am dying by inches of this dismal state of things.  I can’t tell the man to go, you see, for he is really a most worthy creature, although such a consummate fool.  For pity’s sake come to me.  You can do your literary work down here as well as in London, and I promise to respect your laborious hours.—­Ever yours,

    “DAVID FORSTER.”

John Saltram stood with this letter open in his hand, staring blankly at it, like a man lost in a dream.

“Go back!” he muttered at last—­“go back, when I thought I did such a great thing in coming away!  No, I am not weak enough for that folly.”