“Supposed to be,” Granet answered grimly. “I am beginning to wonder—Tell me, you haven’t heard anything more about him, have you?”
“Not a word,” Sir Alfred replied. “Why should I?”
“Nothing except that I have an uncomfortable feeling about him,” Granet went on. “I wish I felt sure that he was just what he professes to be. He is the one man who seems to suspect me. If it hadn’t been for Isabel Worth, I was done for—finished—down at that wretched hole! He had me where I couldn’t move. The girl lied and got me out of it.”
Sir Alfred drummed for a moment with his fingers upon the table.
“I am not sure that these risks are worth while for you, Ronnie,” he said.
The young man shrugged his shoulders. His face certainly seemed to have grown thinner during the last few days.
“I don’t mind it so much abroad,” he declared. “It seems a different thing there, somehow. But over here it’s all wrong; it’s the atmosphere, I suppose. And that fellow Thomson means mischief—I’m sure of it.”
“Is there any reason for ill-feeling between you two?” the banker inquired.
Granet nodded.
“You’ve hit it, sir.”