"Oh, I'm all right now," cried the other. "Liver got out of order--or the spleen, or something--I forget. The best medicine was the news I got about old Strangwyn.--There, by Jove! I've let the name out. The wonder is I never did it before, when we were talking. It doesn't matter now. Yes, it's Strangwyn, the whisky man. He'll die worth a million or two, and Ted is his only son. I was a fool to lend that money to Ted, but we saw a great deal of each other at one time, and when he came asking for ten thousand--a mere nothing for a fellow of his expectations--nobody thought his father could live a year, but the old man has held out all this time, and Ted, the rascal, kept swearing he couldn't pay the interest on his debt. Of course I could have made him; but he knew I shouldn't dare to risk the thing coming to his father's ears. I've had altogether about three hundred pounds, instead of the four hundred a year he owed me--it was at four per cent. Now, of course, I shall get all the arrears--but that won't pay for all the mischief that's been done." "Is it certain," asked Will, "that Strangwyn will pay?" "Certain? If he doesn't I sue him. The case is plain as daylight." "There's no doubt that he'll have his father's money?" "None whatever. For more than a year now, he's been on good terms with the old man. Ted is a very decent fellow, of his sort. I don't say that I care as much for him now as I used to; we've both of us altered; but his worst fault is extravagance. The old man, it must be confessed, isn't very good form; he smells rather of the distillery; but Ted Strangwyn might come of the best family in the land. Oh, you needn't have the least anxiety. Strangwyn will pay, principal and interest, as soon as the old man has retired; and that may happen any day, any hour.--How glad I am to see you again, Will! I've known one or two plucky men, but no one like you. I couldn't have gone through it; I should have turned coward after a month of that. Well, it's over, and it'll be something to look back upon. Some day, perhaps, you'll amuse your sister by telling her the story. To tell you the truth, I couldn't bear to come and see you; I should have been too miserably ashamed of myself.--And not a soul has found you out, all this time?" "No one that I know of." "You must have suffered horribly from loneliness.--But I have things to tell you, important things." He waved his arm. "Not to-night; it's too late, and you look tired to death." "Tell on," said Warburton. "If I went to bed I shouldn't sleep--where are you staying?"