CHAPTER 10




Back at Chelsea, Will sent a note to Norbert Franks, a line or two
without express reference to what had happened, asking him to come
and have a talk. Three days passed, and there was no reply. Will
grew uneasy; for, though the artist's silence perhaps meant only
sullenness, danger might lurk in such a man's thwarted passion. On
the fourth evening, just as he had made up his mind to walk over to
Queen's Road, the familiar knock sounded. Mrs. Hopper had left; Will
went to the door, and greeted his visitor in the usual way. But
Franks entered without speaking. The lamplight showed a pitiful
change in him; he was yellow and fishy-eyed, unshaven, disorderly in
dress indeed, so well did he look the part of the despairing lover
that Warburton suspected a touch of theatric consciousness.

"If you hadn't come to-night," said Will, "I should have looked you
up."

Franks lay limply in the armchair, staring blankly.

"I ought to have come before," he replied in low, toneless voice.
"That night when I met you, I made a fool of myself. For one thing,