Warburton chuckled.

“But that isn’t all,” went on the other, “Old Strangwyn is dead, really dead at last.  I wrote several times to him; no acknowledgment of my letters.  Now it’s all over.  The ten thousand pounds—­”

He made a despairing gesture.  Then: 

“Take that cheque, Warburton.  It’s all I have; take it, old fellow, and try to forgive me.  You won’t?  Well, well, if I live, I’ll pay you yet; but I’m a good deal run down, and these disappointments have almost floored me.  To tell you the truth, the vegetarian diet won’t do.  I feel as weak as a cat.  If you knew the heroism it has cost me, down at the seaside, to refrain from chops and steaks.  Now I give it up.  Another month of cabbage and lentils and I should be sunk beyond recovery.  I give it up.  This very night I shall go and have a supper, a real supper, in town.  Will you come with me, old man?  What’s before me, I don’t know.  I have half a mind to go to Canada as farm labourer; it would be just the thing for my health; but let us go and have one more supper together, as in the old days.  Where shall it be?”

So they went into town, and supped royally, with the result that Warburton had to see his friend home.  Over the second bottle, Godfrey decided for an agricultural life in the Far West, and Will promised to speak for him to a friend of his, a lady who had brothers farming in British Columbia; but, before he went, he must be assured that Warburton really forgave him the loss of that money.  Will protested that he had forgotten all about it; if any pardon were needed, he granted it with all his heart.  And so with affectionate cordiality they bade each other good-night.

To his surprise, he received a letter from Sherwood, a day or two after, seriously returning to the British Columbia project, and reminding him of his promise.  So, on Sunday, Will called for the first time without invitation at Mrs. Cross’, and, being received with no less friendliness than hitherto, began asking news of Bertha’s brothers; whereupon followed talk upon Canadian farming life, and the mention of Godfrey Sherwood.  Bertha undertook to write on the subject by the next mail; she thought it likely enough that her brothers might be able to put Mr. Sherwood into the way of earning a living.

“What do you think we did yesterday?” said Mrs. Cross.  “We took the liberty of calling upon Mr. Potts.  We had to go and see Mrs. Bolton, at Holloway, and, as it was so near, we thought we might venture—­ using your name as our introduction.  And the poor old gentleman was delighted to see us—­wasn’t he, Bertha?  Oh, and he is so grateful for our suggestion of the lodgings.”

Bertha’s smile betrayed a little disquiet.  Perceiving this, Warburton spoke with emphasis.

“It was kind of you.  The old man feels a little lonely in that foreign region; he’s hardly been out of Kennington for forty years.  A very kind thought, indeed.”