difficult than for a man of his age and position, unexpectedly cut adrift, to find work and payment.  By good fortune, his lease of this flat came to an end at Michaelmas, and already he had given notice that he did not mean to renew.  Mrs. Hopper knew that he was on the point of leaving London, and mot a little lamented it, for to her the loss would be serious indeed.  Warburton’s habitual generosity led her to hope for some signal benefaction ere his departure; perhaps on that account she was specially emphatic in gratitude for her sister’s restoration to health.

“We was wondering, sir,” she added, now having wedged herself between door and jamb, “whether you’d be so kind as to let my sister Liza see you just for a minute or two, to thank you herself as I’m sure she ought?  She could come any time as wouldn’t be ill-convenient to you.”

“I’m extremely busy, Mrs. Hopper,” Will replied.  “Please tell your sister I’m delighted to hear she’s done so well at Southend, and I hope to see her some day; but not just now.  By the bye, I’m not going out this morning, so don’t wait, when you’ve finished.”

By force of habit he ate and drank.  Sherwood’s letter lay open before him; he read it through again and again.  But he could not fix his thoughts upon it.  He found himself occupied with the story of Boxon, wondering whether Boxon would live or die.  Boxon, the grocer —­why, what an ass a man must be, a man with a good grocery business, to come to grief over drink and betting!  Shopkeeping—­ what a sound and safe life it was; independent, as far as any money-earning life can be so.  There must be a pleasure in counting the contents of one’s till every night.  Boxon!  Of course, a mere brute.  There came into Will’s memory the picture of Boxon landed on the pavement one night, by Allchin’s fist or toe—­and of a sudden he laughed.  When he had half-smoked his pipe, comparative calmness fell upon him.  Sherwood spoke of at once raising the money he owed, and, if he succeeded in doing so, much of the mischief would be undone.  The four thousand pounds might be safely invested somewhere, and life at The Haws would go on as usual.  But was it certain that Sherwood could “raise” such sums, being himself, as he declared, penniless?  This disclosure showed him in an unpleasantly new light, as anything but the cautious man of business, the loyal friend, he had seemed to be.  Who could put faith in a money-market gambler?  Why, there was no difference to speak of between him and Boxon.  And if his promise proved futile—­what was to be done?

For a couple of hours, Will stared at this question.  When the clock on his mantelpiece struck eleven, he happened to notice it, and was surprised to find how quickly time had passed.  By the bye, he had never thought of looking at his newspaper, though Sherwood referred him to that source of information on the subject of Biggles, Thorpe and Biggles.  Yes, here it was.  A firm of brokers; unfortunate speculations; failure of another house—­all the old story.  As likely as not, the financial trick of a cluster of thieves.  Will threw the paper aside.  He had always scorned that cunning of the Stock Exchange, now he thought of it with fiery hatred.