"
Franks checked his step, just where the wind roared at an
unprotected corner.
"I've no choice but to believe you," he said, irritably. "And no
doubt I'm making a fool of myself. That's why I shot out of your way
this afternoon--I wanted to wait till I got calmer. Let's say
good-night."
"You're tired out," said Warburton. "Don't go any farther this way,
but let me walk back with you--I won't go in. I can't leave you in
this state of mind. Of course I begin to see what you mean, and a
wilder idea never got into any man's head. Whatever the explanation
of what has happened, _I_ have nothing to do with it."
"You say so, and I believe you."
"Which means, that you don't. I shan't cut up rough; you're not
yourself, and I can make all allowances. Think over what I've said,
and come and have another talk. Not to-morrow; I have to go down to
St. Neots. But the day after, in the evening."
"Very well. Good-night."
This time they did not shake hands. Franks turned abruptly, with a
wave of the arm, and walked off unsteadily, like a man in liquor.
Observing this, Warburton said to himself that not improbably the
artist had been trying to drown his misery, which might account for
his strange delusion. Yet this explanation did not put Will's mind
at ease. Gloomily he made his way homeward through the roaring
night.
CHAPTER 9
Ten o'clock next morning saw him alighting from the train at St.
Neots. A conveyance for which he had telegraphed awaited him at the
station; its driver, a young man of his own age (they had known each
other from boyhood), grinned his broadest as he ran toward Will on
the platform, and relieved him of his bag.
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