“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?”