"What is true," demanded the manager. "That Mr. Werner is dead. I had occasion to go to his house this morning and found that he died last night."
"It is a lie; it is a —— put off. He is gone like that villain Kleinwort; but he need not think to escape me. I will find him if he is above ground!"
"You won't have far to go then," was the reply. "He is lying stiff and safe enough in his own study."
"And he is gone to a land with which we have no extradition treaty," observed Carless, as Mr. Forde banged the door behind him.
"Hold your tongue, do," entreated the 'Times'' student, who, having been in a fashion confidential clerk to Mr. Werner, had some comprehension how the matter stood. "Our governor has been badgered into his grave, and I only hope they will call me on the inquest that I may be able to state my belief."
"And he was not half a bad sort, the governor," said Carless, shutting up the day-book.
"I say let's all go to the funeral," suggested a third; and so these young men wrote their employer's epitaph.
Meantime Mr. Forde was proceeding westward as fast as the legs of a swift horse could take him. To describe what he felt would be as impossible as to detail the contents and occupants of each vehicle the hansom passed—the hopes and fears—the miseries and joys hidden behind the walls of the countless houses, which lay to left and right of his route.
He believed; he did not believe. He dreaded; no it was all a sham. Now in imagination he started himself with the detectives in pursuit, again with dry parched lips he was answering the questions of his directors.