le grew more natural; his eye lost
its fixity; he puffed at his cigar with enjoyment.

"What news of Franks?" were his next words.

"Nothing very good," answered Will, frowning. "He seems to be still
playing the fool. I've seen him only once in the last fortnight, and
then it was evident he'd been drinking. I couldn't help saying a plain
word or two, and he turned sullen. I called at his place last night,
but he wasn't there; his landlady tells me he's been out of town
several times lately, and he's done no work."

"Has the girl gone?"

"A week ago. I have a letter from Ralph Pomfret. The good old chap
worries about this affair; so does Mrs. Pomfret. He doesn't say it
plainly, but I suspect Franks has been behaving theatrically down at
Ashstead; it's possible he went there in the same state in which I saw
him last. Pomfret would have done well to punch his head, but I've no
doubt they've stroked and patted and poor-fellow'd him--the very worst
thing for Franks."

"Or for any man," remarked Sherwood.

"Worse for him than for most. I wish I had more of the gift of
brutality; I see a way in which I might do him good; but it goes
against the grain with me."

"That I can believe," said Godfrey, with his pleasantest look and nod.

"I was afraid he might somehow scrape together money enough to pursue
her to Egypt. Perhaps he's trying for that. The Pomfrets want me to go
down to Ashstead and have a talk with them about him. Whether he
managed to see the girl before she left England, I don't know."

"After all, he _has_ been badly treated," said Sherwood sympathetically.

"Well, yes, he has. But a fellow must have common sense, most of all
with regard to women. I'm rather afraid Franks might think it a fine
thing to go to the devil because he's been jilted. It isn't fashionable
nowadays; there might seem to be a sort of originality about it."

They talked for a few minutes of business matters, and Sherwood briskly
went his way.

Four days passed. Warburton paid a visit to the Pomfrets, and had from
them a confirmation of all he suspected regarding Norbert Franks. The
artist's behaviour at Ashstead had been very theatrical indeed; he
talked much of suicide, preferably by the way of drink, and, when
dissuaded from this, with a burst of tears--veritable tears--begged
Ralph Pomfret to lend him money enough to go to Cairo; on which point,
also, he met with kindliest opposition. Thereupon, he had raged for
half an hour