"But how on my account?"
"Sir, in a word, he resented my friendship for you. Sir, Barrymaine is cursed proud, but so am I—as Lucifer! Sir, when the blood of a Smivvle is once curdled, it's curdled most damnably, and the heart of a Smivvle,—as all the world knows,—becomes a—an accursed flint, sir." Here Mr. Smivvle shook his head and sighed again. "Though I can't help wondering what the poor fellow will do without me at hand to—ah—pop round the corner for him. By the way, do you happen to remember if you fastened the front door securely?"
"No."
"I ask because the latch is faulty,—like most things about here,—and in this delightful Garden of Hatton and the—ah—hot-beds adjoining there are weeds, sir, of the rambling species which, given opportunity—will ramble anywhere. Several of 'em—choice exotics, too! have found their way up here lately,—one of 'em got in here this very morning after Barrymaine had gone,—characteristic specimen in a fur cap. But, as I was saying, you may have noticed that Chichester is not altogether—friendly towards you?"
"Chichester?" said Barnabas. "Yes!"
"And it would almost seem that he's determined that Barrymaine shall—be the same. Poor fellow's been very strange lately,—Gaunt's been pressing him again worse than ever,—even threatened him with the Marshalsea. Consequently, the flowing bowl has continually brimmed—Chichester's doing, of course,—and he seems to consider you his mortal enemy, and—in short, I think it only right to—put you on your guard."
"You mean against—Chichester?"
"I mean against—Barrymaine!"
"Ah!" said Barnabas, chin in hand, "but why?"
"Well, you'll remember that the only time you met him he was inclined to be—just a l-ee-tle—violent, perhaps?"