‘I was wondering,’ said the other, with a pale smile, ‘if you were ever in love with Edith.’
‘No, my good soul, I was not,’ answered Conyngham, with perfect carelessness, ‘though I knew her long before you did.’
He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some men are seen at their worst in adversity. He was ready enough to find excuses for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their friendship, often bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved.
He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the constable.
While they were still talking a mutual friend came in—a quick-spoken man already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability. They talked on indifferent topics for some time. Then the new-comer said jerkily:
‘Heard the news?’
‘No,’ answered Conyngham.
‘Alfred Pleydell—young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters at Durham—died yesterday morning.’ Frederick Conyngham had placed himself in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low chair by the fire. He found Horner’s toe with his heel.
‘Is that so?’ he said gravely. ‘Then I’m off.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the journalist with a quick look—the man had the manner of a ferret.