Abraham went and told Waymark of all this as soon as they got back.  In the exuberance of his spirits he was half angry with the invalid for being gloomy.  Waymark had by this time shaken off all effects of his disagreeable adventure, with the exception of a weakness of the eyes; but convalescence did not work upon him as in Ida’s case.  He was morose, often apparently sunk in hopeless wretchedness.  When Abraham spoke to him of Ida, he could scarcely be got to reply.  Above all, he showed an extreme impatience to recover his health and go back to the ordinary life.

“I shall be able to go for the rents next Monday,” he said to Mr. Woodstock one day.

“I should have thought you’d had enough of that.  I’ve found another man for the job.”

“Then what on earth am I to do?” Waymark exclaimed impatiently.  “How am I to get my living if you take that work away from me?”

“Never mind; we’ll find something,” Abraham returned.  “Why are you in such a hurry to get away, I should like to know?”

“Simply because I can’t always live here, and I hate uncertainty.”

There was something in the young man’s behaviour which puzzled Mr. Woodstock; but the key to the puzzle was very shortly given him.  On the evening of the same day he presented himself once more in Waymark’s room.  The latter could not see him, but the first sound of his voice was a warning of trouble.

“Do you feel able to talk?” Abraham asked, rather gruffly.

“Yes.  Why?”

“Because I want to ask you a few questions.  I’ve just had a call from that friend of yours, Mr. Enderby, and something came out in talk that I wasn’t exactly prepared for.”

Waymark rose from his chair.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” pursued Mr. Woodstock, “that you were engaged to his daughter?”

“I scarcely thought it necessary.”

“Not when I told you who Ida was?”

This disclosure had been made whilst Waymark was still confined to his bed; partly because Abraham had a difficulty in keeping the matter to himself; partly because be thought it might help the other through his illness.  Waymark had said very little at the time, and there had been no conversation on the matter between them since.

“I don’t see that it made any difference,” Waymark replied gloomily.

The old man was silent.  He had been, it seemed, under a complete delusion, and could not immediately make up his mind whether he had indeed ground of complaint against Waymark.

“Why did Mr. Enderby call?” the latter inquired.

“Very naturally, it seems to me, to know what had become of you.  He didn’t see the report in the paper, and went searching for you.”

“Does Ida know of this?” he asked, after a pause, during which Waymark had remained standing with his arms crossed on the back of the chair.

“I have never told her.  Why should I have done?  Perhaps now you will believe what I insisted upon before the trial, that there had been nothing whatever—­”