‘He has not been flush of money lately—since the new year, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘There has been no change in his way of life since then?’
‘Not the slightest—except, perhaps, that he has worked harder than ever. The man is a prodigious worker. When first he came to London he had an idea of succeeding as a painter. He used to be at his easel as soon as it was light. But since the comic journals have taken him up he has done nothing but draw on the wood. He is really a very good creature. I haven’t a word to say against him.’
‘He is remarkably like a man I know,’ said Mr. Clare, musingly; ‘but of course it can’t be the same. The husband of a French dancer. No, that isn’t possible. I wish it were,’ he muttered to himself, with clenched teeth.
‘Is he like some one you know?’ interrogated Desrolles.
‘Wonderfully like, so far as I could make out in the glimpse I got of his face.’
‘Ah, those glimpses are sometimes deceptive. Is your friend residing in London?’
‘I don’t know where he is just at present. When last I saw him he was in the west of England.’
‘Ah, nice country that,’ said Desrolles, kindling with sudden eagerness. ‘Somersetshire or Devonshire way, you mean, I suppose?’