“At your cost?” said Stratton sharply.
“Oh, pooh! A mere nothing, my dear boy,” cried Brettison; “and I am not poor.”
“I cannot allow that,” said Stratton, after a few moments’ thought; “and we must do something else. There should be no risk of those two ever coming face to face again.”
“Well, is it likely? West End and East End do not often mix.”
“No, but there is always the possibility. An accident might bring Myra to some spot where he had been taken. Who can guard against such things?”
“None of us; but I thought I had taken precautions enough.”
“But we must take the greatest,” said Stratton excitedly.
“What would you do?”
Stratton made no reply, and seemed so plunged in thought that Brettison respected his silence, and they rode back together, with the old man’s face lighting up as he felt more at rest and satisfied with the way in which matters had shaped themselves.
They reached the narrow entrance to the inn in due course, and Stratton led the way up into his chambers, closed the door, and pointed to a seat, but kept on pacing the room himself; thoughtful and silent, as if some doubt as to his course were still lingering in his mind.