Mr. Simon Quarle leaned forward, and peered down at this new wonder. "You mean to tell me that you are no longer the rich Mr. Byfield we used to know? You mean to tell me that you have got to set to work to earn your living?" he asked.
"Yes—and with no particular qualifications for doing it," said Gilbert. "I'm not afraid, because I think that it's really the life for which I was fitted; idleness never really suited me. It's too long a story to tell, but my affairs got out of order during that time I disappeared from the world; and when I came back they went from bad to worse. I have nothing save what I may earn—and I rather think I want friends."
Mr. Simon Quarle stretched out a hand, and Byfield grasped it quickly. After a moment of silence the elder man asked—"And that is the only thing that has brought you back to Arcadia Street—eh?"
"That—and the memory of the best woman I ever met. I've had a long year to think about her since she ran away from me—to wonder about her. I've looked back over it all—and I've seen what I was, and what I did, and how I strove to make her something that should please myself only. I wanted a toy—someone to be good to, and help—someone who would look up at me, and say how good I was, and how kind I had been—and so forth. I didn't understand her then; I didn't know the value of what I was striving to bend or break in my own direction. I don't know where she is—I don't hope ever to have anything to do with her again; because if I met her she must carry that resentment in her heart for me always. But I'd give a good deal to call her back here, if only for an hour—just to tell her what I think about it all. I suppose you know nothing about her?"
"Am I likely to know anything?" snapped the other, in the old fashion. "I came back here because I liked the place, and because she had lived here; that's all. I can tell you about some of the others, and about what's happened to them, if you like; I've heard vague things from time to time."
"Do you think it likely that she has gone back to her father?" asked Gilbert eagerly. "Because if you know where he is I might be able——"
"Mr. Daniel Meggison has done rather well for himself—and I don't think he wants anything to do with his daughter," said Quarle, seating himself and folding his arms. "It appears that he wandered about a bit in Ireland, and finally drifted to Liverpool; and there he took up his quarters in a little public-house. The public-house was owned by a confiding widow—and Daniel Meggison was ever plausible. He married the widow, and settled down in some sort of comfort."
"Ungrateful brute!" exclaimed Gilbert. "And the son?"
"Cast off by his father, and unable to find his sister, he really did something for himself at last, in his own particular fashion. I think he does a little in the way of billiard-marking, and a little in the way of racing, and more still in the way of borrowing. He'll never starve, you may be sure of that. The Stockers got back in due course to Clapham, and have doubtless settled down into their own old way of life; that exhausts my list."
"You will be interested to know, perhaps," said Gilbert in his turn, "that Mr. Tant married Miss Ewart-Crane some months ago; I've seen very little of him, but I believe their extraordinary adventures on a desert island are already quite the talk in their own particular sphere. Pringle—most wonderful of servants—is no longer a servant of mine, but is, I believe, doing well for himself. When last I saw him he had got in touch with the captain and crew of the lost Blue Bird; they were all picked up."