"Well, what does he say?" asked Ruston, a frown on his brow.
"Oh, some nonsense—pressure of other business or something of that kind. Can't you go and see him, Willie? He's back in town. He writes from Curzon Street."
"I don't know why he does it," said Ruston slowly. "I knew he'd been selling out."
"He hasn't made money at that."
"No. I've made the profit there," said Ruston, with a sudden smile.
"The Baron bought 'em, eh?" laughed Carlin. "You generally come out right side up, Willie. You'll go and see him, though, won't you?"
Yes. He would go. That was the resolution which in a moment he reached. If there were danger, he must face it, if there were calamity, he must know it. He would go and see Harry Dennison.
As he was, on the stroke of half-past four, he jumped into a hansom-cab, and bade the man drive to Curzon Street.
Harry was not at home—nor Mrs. Dennison, added the servant. But both were expected soon.
"I'll wait," said Willie, and he was shown up into the drawing-room.