‘Brooks, my boy,’ he said, when that gentleman had got over his mingled admiration and enthusiasm, ‘I am only at the beginning of the work I have to do. I am afraid you won’t be able to go very far on the road with me if you don’t brighten up a bit.’
Mr. Brooks hoped Mr. Marston would always be able to make use of his services.
‘Well, it will be time enough to talk about it when I can’t. At any rate, we won’t dissolve partnership till there’s a rattling good profit to divide. Now cut back to the office and send your messenger to the solicitors with the money. They’ve promised to remit me at once if they recover it, as I’ve said I’m leaving town. I shall have their cheque to-morrow, and then we can set to work.’
‘Shall I come up to you to-morrow?’
‘No, I think not. I’ll come down to the office to you. There’s no danger over the other cheque, I suppose? The office isn’t watched?’
‘No; Preene’s got the matter in hand, and he’s put the Yard on the wrong scent altogether. I shall have the tip from him if there should be danger.’
‘Very well, then, I’ll come round at eleven if I receive the cheque. Get your clerk out of the way, so that you are alone when I come. Good-morning.’
Mr. Marston bowed Mr. Brooks out and returned to his library to finish his cigar and a romance he was reading when his partner interrupted him.
Mr. Marston had just got to the death of the heroine, a very lovable character. The description of her last hours was most pathetically drawn by the author, and, as Marston read, the big lump came in his throat and his eyes filled with tears.
Mr. Marston had a most sympathetic nature, and any story of human suffering distressed him immensely.