against some treacherous friend, unnamed. Who this could
be, the Pomfrets had no idea. Warburton, though he affected equal
ignorance, could not doubt but that it was himself, and he grew
inwardly angry. Franks had been to Bath, and had obtained a private
interview with Winifred Elvan, in which (Winifred wrote to her aunt) he
had demeaned himself very humbly and pathetically, first of all
imploring the sister's help with Rosamund, and, when she declared she
could do nothing, entreating to be told whether or not he was ousted by
a rival. Rather impatient with the artist's follies than troubled about
his sufferings, Will came home again. He wrote a brief, not unfriendly
letter to Franks, urging him to return to his better mind--the
half-disdainful, half-philosophical resignation which he seemed to have
attained a month ago. The answer to this was a couple of lines;
"Thanks. Your advice, no doubt, is well meant, but I had rather not
have it just now. Don't let us meet for the present." Will shrugged his
shoulders, and tried to forget all about the affair.

He did not see Sherwood, but had a note from him written in high
spirits. Applegarth would be in town two days hence, and all three were
to dine at his hotel. Having no occupation, Warburton spent most of his
time in walking about London; but these rambles did not give him the
wonted pleasure, and though at night he was very tired, he did not
sleep well. An inexplicable nervousness interfered with all his habits
of mind and body He was on the point of running down to St. Neots, to
get through the last day of intolerable idleness, when the morning post
again brought a letter from Sherwood.

"Confound the fellow!" he muttered, as he tore open the envelope. "What
else can he have to say? No infernal postponement, I hope--"

He read the first line and drew himself up like a man pierced with pain.

"My dear Warburton"--thus wrote his partner, in a hand less legible
than of wont--"I have such bad news for you that I hardly know how to
tell it. If I dared, I would come to you at once, but I simply have not
the courage to face you until you know the worst, and have had time to
get accustomed to it. It is seven o'clock; an hour ago I learnt that
all our money is lost--all yours, all that from St. Neots, all
mine--every penny I have. I have been guilty of unpardonable folly--how
explain my behaviour? The truth is, after the settlement in Little
Ailie Street; I found myself muc