enclosed a small sum of money, for a present on the father's
birthday. Having, as usual, laden himself with newspapers,
periodicals and notepaper, he went his way.

At grimy Vauxhall he crossed the river, and pursued his course along
Grosvenor Road. Rain had begun to fall, and the driving of the wind
obliged him to walk with the umbrella before his face. Happening to
glance ahead, when not far from home, he saw, at a distance of
twenty yards, a man whom he took for Norbert Franks. The artist was
coming toward him, but suddenly he turned round about, and walked
rapidly away, disappearing in a moment down a side street. Franks it
certainly was; impossible to mistake his figure, his gait; and
Warburton felt sure that the abrupt change of direction was caused
by his friend's desire to avoid him. At the end of the byway he
looked, and there was the familiar figure, marching with quick step
into the rainy distance. Odd! but perhaps it simply meant that
Franks had not seen him.

He reached home, wrote some letters, made preparations for leaving
town by an early train next morning, and dined with his customary
appetite. Whilst smoking his after-dinner pipe, he thought again of
that queer little incident in Grosvenor Road, and resolved of a
sudden to go and see Franks. It still rained, so he took advantage
of a passing hansom, and drove in a few minutes to the artist's
lodging on the south side of Battersea Park. The door was opened to
him by the landlady, who smiled recognition.

"No, sir, Mr. Franks isn't at home, and hasn't been since after
breakfast this morning. And I don't understand it; because he told
me last night that he'd be working all day, and I was to get meals