"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