m convinced there's some other
explanation."

"Perhaps the truth is yet more awful," said Bertha solemnly. "He may
have got a place _in a shop_."

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the other, with a pained look. "Don't say such
things! A poor clerk is suggestive--it's possible to see him in a
romantic light--but a shopman! If you knew him,' you would laugh at the
idea. Mystery suits him very well indeed; to tell the truth, he's much
more interesting now than when one knew him as a partner in a
manufactory of some kind. You see he's unhappy--there are lines in his
face--"

"Perhaps," suggested Bertha, "he has married a rich widow and daren't
confess it."

CHAPTER 30

It was on Saturday night that Godfrey Sherwood came at length to
Warburton's lodgings. Reaching home between twelve and one o'clock Will
saw a man who paced the pavement near Mrs. Wick's door; the man, at
sight of him, hastened forward; there were exclamations of surprise and
of pleasure.

"I came first of all at nine o'clock," said Sherwood. "The landlady
said you wouldn't be back before midnight, so I came again. Been to the
theatre, I suppose?"

"Yes," answered Will, "taking part in a play called 'The Grocer's
Saturday Night.'

"I'd forgotten. Poor old fellow! You won't have much more of _that_
thank Heaven!--Are you too tired to talk to-night?"

"No, no; come in."

The house was silent and dark. Will struck a match to light the candle
placed for him at the foot of the stairs, and led the way up to his
sitting-room on the first floor. Here he lit a lamp, and the two
friends looked at each other. Each saw a change. If Warburton was thin
and heavy-eyed, Sherwood's visage showed an even more noticeable
falling-off in health.

"What's been the matter with you?" asked Will. "Your letter said you
had had an illness, and you look as if you hadn't got over it yet."

"Oh, I'm all right now," cried the other. "Liver got out of order--or
the spleen, or something--I forget. The best medicine was the news I
got about old Strangwyn.--There, by Jove! I've let the name out. The
wonder is I never did it before, when we were talking. It doesn't
matter now. Yes, it's Strangwyn, the whisky man. He'll die worth a
million or two, and Ted is his only son. I was a fool to lend that
money to Ted, but we saw a great deal of each other at one time, and
when he came asking for ten thousand--a mere nothing for a fellow of
his expectations--nobody thought his father co