must try to remember our friendship of the past. Think that I have loved
you very dearly--as well as one man ever loved another, perhaps."

"My dear John, you have no need to tell me to think that. Nothing can
ever weaken the love between us. And you are not likely to go to the bad.
Good bye, dear old friend. I shall remember you every day of my life. You
are second only to Marian in my heart. I shall write you an account of my
proceedings, and shall expect to hear from you. Once more, good bye."

The bell rang. Gilbert Fenton and his friend shook hands in silence for
the last time, and in the next moment John Saltram ran down the steps to
the little steamer which had brought them out to the larger vessel. The
sails spread wide in the cool evening wind, and the mighty ship glided
away into the dusk. John Saltram's last look showed him his friend's face
gazing down upon him over the bulwarks full of trust and affection.

He went back to London by the evening express, and reached his chambers
at a late hour that night. There had been some attempt at tidying the
rooms in his absence; but his books and papers had been undisturbed. Some
letters were lying on the desk, amongst them one in a big scrawling hand
that was very familiar to Mr. Saltram, the envelope stamped "Lidford." He
tore this open eagerly. It was from Sir David Forster.

"DEAR SALTRAM" (wrote the Baronet),--"What do you mean by this
iniquitous conduct? You only obtained my consent to your hurried
departure the other day on condition you should come back in a
week, yet there are no signs of you. Foljambe and the lawyer are
gone, and I am alone with Harker, whose stupidity is something
marvellous. I am dying by inches of this dismal state of things. I
can't tell the man to go, you see, for he is really a most worthy