ne from Sherwood, which contained only these words:

"Great opportunity in view. Our fortunes are made!"

CHAPTER 4

When Franks was gone, Warburton took up _The Art World_, which his
friend had left, and glanced again at the photogravure of "Sanctuary."
He knew, as he had declared, nothing about art, and judged pictures as
he judged books, emotionally. His bent was to what is called the
realistic point of view, and "Sanctuary" made him smile. But very
good-naturedly; for he liked Norbert Franks, and believed he would do
better things than this. Unless--?

The thought broke off with an uneasy interrogative.

He turned to the few lines of text devoted to the painter. Norbert
Franks, he read, was still a very young man; "Sanctuary," now on
exhibition at Birmingham, was his first important picture; hitherto he
had been chiefly occupied with work in black and white. There followed
a few critical comments, and prophecy of achievements to come.

Yes. But again the uneasy interrogative.

Their acquaintance dated from the year after Warburton's return from
St. Kitts. Will had just established himself in his flat near Chelsea
Bridge, delighted to be a Londoner, and was spending most of his
leisure in exploration of London's vastness. He looked upon all his
earlier years as wasted, because they had not been passed in the city
on the Thames. The history of London, the multitudinous life of London
as it lay about him, with marvels and mysteries in every highway and
byway, occupied his mind, and wrought upon his imagination. Being a
stout walker, and caring little for any other form of exercise, in his
free hours he covered many a league of pavement. A fine summer morning
would see him set forth, long before milk-carts had begun to rattle
along the streets, and on one such expedition, as he stepped briskly
through a poor district south of the river, he was surprised to see an
artist at work, painting seriously, his easel in the dry gutter. He
slackened his pace to have a glimpse of the canvas, and the painter, a
young, pleasant-looking fellow, turned round and asked if he had a
match. Able to supply this demand, Warburton talked whilst the other
relit his pipe. It rejoiced him, he said, to see a painter engaged upon
such a subject as this--a bit of squalid London's infinite
picturesqueness.

The next morning Warburton took the same walk, and again found the
painter at work. They talked freely; they exchanged invitatio