"I can't say yes, Corrie, but I'm truly obliged to you for your kind offer. Even if I wished to break my connection with Chaytor--which I don't--it's for him to put an end to our partnership, not for me--don't you see that it would be impossible for me to lay myself under an obligation to you?"
"No, I don't see it,' growled Old Corrie.
"Then, again, Corrie, what inducement have I to return to England?"
"There's little lady," interrupted Old Corrie.
"She has forgotten me," said Basil, sadly. "What business have I to thrust myself upon her? If she desired to continue a friendship which was as precious to me as my heart's blood--yes, I don't mind confessing it; there may be weakness, but there is no shame in it--would she not have written to me? She would, if it was only one line. It is true that her uncle may be jealously guarding and watching her--there was love lost between us--but in these three years that have passed since the last day we saw each other, it is not possible to think that she could not have contrived once to have put in the post a bit of paper with only the words, 'I have not forgotten you, Basil.' Who and what am I that I should cross the road she is traversing for the purpose of bringing a reminiscence to her mind that she chooses not to remember? There would not be much manliness in that. Besides, it's a hundred chances to one that she's not in England at all. It is my belief she is living in her father's native country, Switzerland, where, surrounded by new scenes and new companions, I hope she is happy. Thank you again, Corrie; I cannot accept your offer."
"All right," said Corrie, with disappointment in his face and voice; "you ought to know your own mind, though I make bold to say I don't believe you've said what's in your heart. Well, there's an end to it. I'm off early in the morning. Good-bye, Master Basil."
"Good-bye, Corrie, and good luck to you."
"Good luck to you, better than you've had in more ways than one."
"Good-bye, Mr. Corrie," said Chaytor.
Old Corrie could scarcely refuse the hand that Chaytor held out to him, but the grasp he gave it was very different from the grasp he gave Basil's. Before he turned to leave the ill-assorted comrades he did something which escaped the eyes of Basil, but not those of Chaytor. He furtively dropped, quite close to Basil's feet, a round wooden matchbox, which, emptied of matches, gold-diggers frequently used to fill with loose gold. Unobserved by old Corrie, Chaytor put his foot on the box and slipped it to the rear of himself. This was done while Old Corrie was turning to go. Basil was genuinely sorry to See the last of his friend. Both the unexpected meeting and the leave-taking had a touch of sadness in them which deeply affected him, and he gazed with regret after the vanishing form of the man who had offered to serve him. This gave Chaytor an opportunity of slyly picking up the matchbox; it was weighty, and Chaytor knew that it was filled with gold. "A bit of luck," he thought, as he put the box into his pocket, "and a narrow escape as well." He felt like a man sitting on a mine which a stray match might fire at any moment.