"Nothing of the sort—not in love at all. It was pure spite—I give you my word—not a spark of real love in the matter, except what was on her side. Gilbert was going to marry her, you know."
"I know."
"And I hate him as I hate the——"
"Prince of evil! I know that, too."
"You know everything that's my opinion. What a detective was lost in you, old boy. Perhaps you know why I hate him?"
"He has blocked one or two little games of yours. And he 'peached' in that affair of Lucy West."
"Liston! what an infernal scoundrel you must think me! When you recall Lucy West, I wonder you don't hate me tenfold more than I hate Gilbert."
"I do think you an infernal scoundrel," replies Mr. Liston, coolly. "As for hating—well I'm one of the forgiving sort, you know. Besides, there's nothing made by turning informer, and there is something to be made, you say, by keeping mum. Now suppose you go back to the house, and her, she's pining for you, no doubt, and tell her you're off to-morrow. I'll call for you with a light wagon about noon. Until then good-day to you."
Thorndyke seized his hand and shook it.
"I don't know how to thank you, Liston! You're the prince of good fellows. And I haven't deserved it—I know that."