"I must get Mr. Warburton to come and walk about Chelsea with me," she added. "Mr. Warburton?" "He's a great authority on London antiquities. Bertha, if you happen to see Norbert these days, do ask him for Mr. Warburton's address." "Why not ask your people at Ashtead?" said Bertha. "I shan't be going there for two or three weeks. Promise to ask Norbert--will you? For me, of course." Bertha had turned to look at the river. Her face wore a puzzled gravity. "I'll try to think of it," she replied, walking slowly on. "He's a great mystery," were Rosamund's next words. "My uncle has no idea what he does, and Norbert, they tell me, is just as ignorant, or at all events, professes to be. Isn't it a queer thing? He came to grief in business two years ago, and since then he has lived out of sight. Uncle Ralph supposes he had to take a clerk's place somewhere, and that he doesn't care to talk about it." "Is he such a snob?" asked Bertha, disinterestedly. "No one would think so who knows him. I'm convinced there's some other explanation." "Perhaps the truth is yet more awful," said Bertha solemnly. "He may have got a place _in a shop_." "Hush! hush!" exclaimed the other, with a pained look. "Don't say such things! A poor clerk is suggestive--it's possible to see him in a romantic light--but a shopman! If you knew him,' you would laugh at the idea. Mystery suits him very well indeed; to tell the truth, he's much more interesting now than when one knew him as a partner in a manufactory of some kind. You see he's unhappy--there are lines in his face--" "Perhaps," suggested Bertha, "he has married a rich widow and daren't confess it." CHAPTER 30 It was on Saturday night that Godfrey Sherwood came at length to Warburton's lodgings. Reaching home between twelve and one o'clock Will saw a man who paced the pavement near Mrs. Wick's door; the man, at sight of him, hastened forward; there were exclamations of surprise and of pleasure. "I came first of all at nine o'clock," said Sherwood. "The landlady said you wouldn't be back before midnight, so I came again. Been to the theatre, I suppose?" "Yes," answered Will, "taking part in a play called 'The Grocer's Saturday Night.' "I'd forgotten. Poor old fellow! You won't have much more of _that_ thank Heaven!--Are you too tired to talk to-night?" "No, no; come in." The house was silent and dark. Will struck a match to light the candle placed for him at the foot of the stairs, and led the way up to his sitting-room on the first floor. Here he lit a lamp, and the two friends looked at each other. Each saw a change. If Warburton was thin and heavy-eyed, Sherwood's visage showed an even more noticeable falling-off in health. "What's been the matter with you?" asked Will. "Your letter said you had had an illness, and you look as if you hadn't got over it yet."