“In spite of all his energy, never rash.”

“No, no; I can see that.  Yet,” added Applegarth, again as if for self-confirmation, “he has energy of an uncommon kind.”

“That will soon show itself,” replied Warburton, smiling.  “He’s surveying the field like a general before battle.”

“Yes.  No end of bright ideas.  Some of them—­perhaps—­not immediately practicable.”

“Oh, Sherwood looks far ahead.”

Applegarth nodded, and for a minute or two each was occupied with his own reflections.

CHAPTER 14

Godfrey having telegraphed that he must remain in town, Warburton soon joined him.  His partner was more cheerful and sanguine than ever; he had cleared off numberless odds and ends of business; there remained little to be done before the day, a week hence, appointed for the signature of the new deed, for which purpose Applegarth would come to London.  Mr. Turnbull, acting with his wonted caution, had at length concluded the sale of Mrs. Warburton’s property, and on the day after his return, Will received from St. Neots a letter containing a cheque for four thousand pounds!  All his own available capital was already in the hands of Sherwood; a sum not much greater in amount than that invested by his mother and sister.  Sherwood, for his part, put in sixteen thousand, with regrets that it was all he had at command just now; before long, he might see his way greatly to increase their capital, but they had enough for moderate enterprise in the meanwhile.

Not half an hour after the post which brought him the cheque, Warburton was surprised by a visit from his friend.

“I thought you wouldn’t have left home yet,” said Godfrey, with a nervous laugh.  “I had a letter from Applegarth last night, which I wanted you to see at once.”

He handed it, and Will, glancing over the sheet, found only an unimportant discussion of a small detail.

“Well, that’s all right,” he said, “but I don’t see that it need have brought you from Wimbledon to Chelsea before nine o’clock in the morning.  Aren’t you getting a little overstrung, old man?”

Godfrey looked it.  His face was noticeably thinner than a month ago, and his eyes had a troubled fixity such as comes of intense preoccupation.

“Daresay I am,” he admitted with a show of careless good-humour.  “Can’t get much sleep lately.”

“But why?  What the deuce is there to fuss about?  Sit down and smoke a cigar.  I suppose you’ve had breakfast?”

“No—­yes, I mean, yes, of course, long ago.”

Will did not believe the corrected statement.  He gazed at his friend curiously and with some anxiety.

“It’s an unaccountable thing that you should fret your gizzard out about this new affair, which seems all so smooth, when you took the Ailie Street worries without turning a hair.”

“Stupid—­nerves out of order,” muttered Godfrey, as he crossed, uncrossed, recrossed his legs, and bit at a cigar, as if he meant to breakfast on it.  “I must get away for a week or two as soon as we’ve signed.”