"I can't very well live in an empty house with no furniture," snapped Quarle, sitting down and rubbing his hands slowly backwards and forwards on his knees. "At least—I don't intend to, while there are furnished rooms to be had."
"Empty house? . . . no furniture? I'm afraid I don't understand," said Gilbert slowly, and yet with an uncomfortable feeling in his mind that he did understand after all. "Will you please tell me plainly what has happened to my little friend—our little friend—Bessie?"
Simon Quarle stopped rubbing his knees for a moment, and frowned. "I don't exactly know why you should feel yourself privileged to call her 'Bessie'; I've known her longer than you have, and I'm older than you are. However, that's neither here nor there. The plain fact of it is that that arch tippler and shuffler, Daniel Meggison, has suddenly come into some money—or made some money—or stolen some money. He boasts that for the rest of his natural days he need not do any work (not that he has ever done any to my knowledge before)—and that he is going to live like a lord in the country—for the sake of his daughter. The letting of lodgings being quite out of the question for such a man in such a position, the house and all the crazy furniture has been sold up—and the family's gone."
Gilbert Byfield stood at his desk, looking down at it, and fingering the papers upon it in an aimless fashion. He saw clearly enough the position in which he was placed; understood only too well that Mr. Daniel Meggison had decided to play that great game of make-believe in the grand manner, being certain in his own mind that Gilbert Byfield would hesitate to stop him. The pretty fiction which Gilbert had himself invented must be kept alive until such time as Daniel Meggison decided he had had his fling, and was prepared to come back to the sober things of life. That at least was Gilbert's first thought.
"I suppose, Mr. Quarle, our friend Meggison did not happen to mention to you what sum of money he had secured—did he?"
"I couldn't get a word out of him as to that—nor could I discover in what particular investments he had been interesting himself," replied Simon Quarle. "It struck me as somewhat peculiar that a man of that type should suddenly come into money—by his own judicious speculation. In other words, Mr. Byfield, there's a mystery about it."
"Well—at all events it doesn't concern me," said Gilbert, a little coldly; for he was not inclined to give his confidence to this abrupt bullying man who had so unceremoniously invaded his rooms.
"No—of course not," retorted Quarle. "How should it concern you? In a sense, you know, Mr. Byfield," he went on, with a slyness that was ominous—"I'm sorry for you. Things have been taken out of your hands a little; you haven't been able to do quite what you desired—have you?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said Gilbert, turning over the few letters that were on his table, and idly picking up one, the handwriting of which was unfamiliar.