"Eh, who knows? Every scribbler carries the Laureate-ship in his brain. By the way, if I see Miss Varlins at Ironfields, shall I give her any message?"
"No; she won't have anything to do with me," replied Roger, dismally. "I've no doubt I'll get married some day, but it won't be to Judith Varlins."
"Ardent lover!" said Fanks, laughing. "Well, good night, and pleasant dreams."
"With that body upstairs. Ugh!" cried Roger Axton, and vanished with a shudder.
Mr. Fanks stood beside the dying fire, leaning his two elbows on the mantelpiece, and thinking deeply.
"He's very much altered," he thought, drearily. "Not the bright boy of ten years ago. How trouble does change a man, and love also! I'll make a point of seeing Miss Varlins when I go down to Ironfields. Rather a dismal love story, but what the devil did he tell me two lies for?"
He left the room, took his candle from Miss Chickles, and returned to bed. As he closed the door of his room, his thoughts reverted to Roger Axton once more.
"He told me two deliberate lies," he thought, with a puzzled expression on his face. "I could see that by his face, or, rather, his manner. Humph! I don't like this."
Having placed the candle on the dressing-table, Mr. Fanks sat down, and having produced his secretive note-book, proceeded to make therein a memorandum (in shorthand) of his conversation with Axton.
No reason for doing so; certainly not. Still, name on pill-box, Ironfields; residence of Judith Varlins, Ironfields. Curious coincidence—very. Nothing may come of it. Highly improbable anything could come of it. Still, those few lines of queer signs, recording an unimportant conversation, may be of use in the future. Who knows? Ah, who, indeed? There's a good deal in chance, and fate sometimes puts a thread into our hands which conducts through tangled labyrinths to unknown issues.