Gurth had gone himself to Heckett, to the only address he knew, the Little Queer Street one, and had found the place shut up. He inquired of Birnie, but that gentleman could tell him nothing. For some reason or other Mr. Heckett had cut all his old acquaintances.
Gurth was determined to know if possible, so he ascertained Marston’s address and went round to him.
He was struck with the comfort and taste of Eden Villa, and he began to think that perhaps, after all, Marston had had a windfall.
He was received with easy courtesy, and Marston rather enjoyed the astonishment under which his visitor was evidently labouring.
‘By Jove, Ned, I’d no idea you were such a swell as this!’ said Gurth, looking about him.
‘It isn’t a bad crib,’ answered Marston quietly; ‘but I’m looking about for an estate in the country; I’m tired of town life. I want to get among the county families, you know, and run for the House as a Tory squire.’
Gurth stared first, and then he burst out laughing.
‘What a chap you are, Ned,’ he exclaimed; ‘why you talk as if you were a millionaire.’
‘All right, my boy,’ answered Marston, rising, and standing with his back to the fireplace; ‘chaff away. You’ve seen me at the bottom of the tree, I know, but if you live long enough you’ll see me at the top.’
Something in Marston’s manner checked the smile that came to Gurth’s lip.