"Business," I replied shortly. "He won't be back until to-morrow."
"And in the meantime you plot mischief—eh?" he suggested. "Oh, I know you—and I know what you mean to do—and I don't blame you. Serve the brute while it pays you, but work behind his back all the same. That's the ticket."
"I don't understand you," I replied, looking at him steadily. "I've just seen Mr. Olivant off at the station, and I'm now going back to my duties at the house."
"Exactly," he sneered, as he thrust his face into mine. "And that was the reason that you went into the George just now, and so anxiously inquired concerning the whereabouts of our young friend Millard—eh? I was in the bar at the side, and heard every word. Idiot!—why can't you be more candid with me? I only want to work with you; I'm not against you."
"I'm not so sure of that," I replied. "At all events, I mean to do whatever is in my mind solely on my own account. I'm fighting now not only for the boy, but for my own dead boyhood, away back in the past. It won't be wise of you if you attempt to stop me."
"My dear Charlie, I'd be the last to stop you," he asserted, seizing my hand and giving it a squeeze. "We work together; our interests are the same. Trust me, Charlie—you'll never regret it."
"I don't intend to trust any one," I said. Then, in an incautious moment, I added exultantly—"I mean to snatch both these young people out of the clutches of Olivant; I mean to set them free. And not you nor all the world shall prevent me."
"My dear boy, I wouldn't prevent you, even if I could. It won't be half a bad thing to do; I shall be quite pleased for you to take a rise out of Murray Olivant; I hate the man."
"Your feelings have changed somewhat too rapidly," I said. "I won't trust you, Fanshawe."