‘Above all,’ he said, ‘we must be prompt. I must disappear to-night, the paragraphs must be in to-morrow’s papers. I think I’ll go to Spain. The Carlists seem to be making things lively there. You know, Horner, I was never meant for a wig and gown—there’s no doubt about that. I shall have a splendid time of it out there—’ He stopped, meeting a queer look in Horner’s eyes, who sat leaning forward and searching his face with jealous glance. ‘I was wondering,’ said the other, with a pale smile, ‘if you were ever in love with Edith.’ ‘No, my good soul, I was not,’ answered Conyngham, with perfect carelessness, ‘though I knew her long before you did.’ He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some men are seen at their worst in adversity. He was ready enough to find excuses for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their friendship, often bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved. He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the constable. While they were still talking a mutual friend came in—a quick-spoken man already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability. They talked on indifferent topics for some time. Then the new-comer said jerkily: ‘Heard the news?’ ‘No,’ answered Conyngham. ‘Alfred Pleydell—young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters at Durham—died yesterday morning.’ Frederick Conyngham had placed himself in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low chair by the fire. He found Horner’s toe with his heel. ‘Is that so?’ he said gravely. ‘Then I’m off.’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked the journalist with a quick look—the man had the manner of a ferret. ‘Nothing, only I’m off, that’s all, old man. And I cannot ask you to stay this evening, you understand, because I have to pack.’ He turned slowly on Horner, who had recovered himself, but still had his hand over his face. ‘Got any money, Geoff?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I have twenty pounds if you want it,’ answered the other in a hoarse voice. ‘I do want it—badly.’ The journalist had taken up his hat and stick. He moved slowly towards the door, and, there pausing, saw Horner pass the bank-notes to Conyngham. ‘You had better go too,’ said the Irishman. ‘You two are going in the same direction, I know.’ Horner rose, and, half laughing, Conyngham pushed him towards the door. ‘See him home, Blake,’ he said. ‘Horner has the blues to-night.’ CHAPTER III LIKE SHIPS UPON THE SEA ‘No one can be more wise than destiny.’ ‘WHAT are we waiting for? why, two more passengers—grand ladies as they tell me—and the captain has gone ashore to fetch them,’ the first mate of the ‘Granville’ barque, of London, made answer to Frederick Conyngham, and he breathed on his fingers as he spoke, for the north-west wind was blowing across the plains of the Medoc, and the sun had just set behind the smoke of Bordeaux.