The Whirlpool | Page 6

of the story in favour of humble domesticity.
In half an hour, his guest having taken leave, Rolfe put on his overcoat, and stepped out into the cold, clammy November night. He was overtaken by a fellow Metropolitan -- a grizzled, scraggy-throated, hollow-eyed man, who laid a tremulous hand upon his arm.
'Excuse me, Mr. Rolfe, have you seen Frothingham recently?'
'Not for a month.'
'Ah! I thought perhaps -- I was wondering what he thought about the Colebrook smash. To tell you the truth, I've heard unpleasant rumours. Do you -- should you think the Colebrook affair would affect the "Britannia" in any way?'
It was not the first time that this man had confided his doubts and timidities to Harvey Rolfe; he had a small, but to him important, interest in Bennet Frothingham's wide-reaching affairs, and seemed to spend most of his time in eliciting opinion on the financier's stability.
'Wouldn't you be much more comfortable,' said Rolfe, rather bluntly, 'if you had your money in some other kind of security?'
'Ah, but, my dear sir, twelve and a half per cent -- twelve and a half! I hold preference shares of the original issue.'
'Then I'm afraid you must take your chance.'
'But,' piped the other in alarm, 'you don't mean that --'
'I mean nothing, and know nothing. I'm the last man to consult about such things.'
And Rolfe, with an abrupt 'Goodnight,' beckoned to a passing hansom. The address he gave was Hugh Carnaby's, in Hamilton Terrace.
Twice already the horse had slipped at slimy crossings, when, near the top of Regent Street, it fell full length, and the abrupt stoppage caused a collision of wheels with another hansom which was just passing at full speed in the same direction. Rolfe managed to alight in the ordinary way, and at once heard himself greeted by a familiar voice from the other cab. His acquaintance showed a pallid, drawn, all but cadaverous visage, with eyes which concealed pain or weariness under their friendly smile. Abbott was the man's name. Formerly a lecturer at a provincial college, he had resigned his post on marrying, and taken to journalism.
'I want to speak to you, Rolfe,' he said hurriedly, 'but I haven't a moment to spare. Going to Euston -- could you come along for a few minutes?'
The vehicles were not damaged; Abbott's driver got quickly out of the crowd, and the two men continued their conversation.
'Do you know anything of Wager?' inquired the journalist, with a troubled look.
'He came to see me a few evenings ago -- late.'
'Ha, he did! To borrow money, wasn't it?'
'Well, yes.'
'I thought so. He came to me for the same. Said he'd got a berth at Southampton. Lie, of course. The fellow has disappeared, and left his children -- left them in a lodging-house at Hammersmith. How's that for cool brutality? The landlady found my wife's address, and came to see her. Address left out on purpose, I dare say. There was nothing for it but to take care of the poor little brats. -- Oh, damn!'
'What's the matter?'
'Neuralgia -- driving me mad. Teeth, I think. I'll have every one wrenched out of my head if this goes on. Never mind. What do you think of Wager?'
'I remember, when we were at Guy's, he used to advocate the nationalisation of offspring. Probably he had some personal interest in the matter, even then.'
'Hound! I don't know whether to set the police after him or not. It wouldn't benefit the children. I suppose it's no use hunting for his family?'
'Not much, I should say.'
'Well, lucky we have no children of our own. Worst of it is, I don't like the poor little wretches, and my wife doesn't either. We must find a home for them.'
'I say, Abbott, you must let me go halves at that.'
'Hang it, no! Why should you support Wager's children? They're relatives of ours, unfortunately. But I wanted to tell you that I'm going down to Waterbury.' He looked at his watch. 'Thirteen minutes -- shall I do it? There's a good local paper, the Free Press, and I have the offer of part-ownership. I shall buy, if possible, and live in the country for a year or two, to pick up my health. Can't say I love London. Might get into country journalism for good. Curse this torment!'
In Tottenham Court Road, Rolfe bade his friend goodbye, and the cab rushed on.

CHAPTER 2
It was half past ten when Rolfe knocked at the door in Hamilton Terrace. He learnt from the servant that Mr. Carnaby was at home, and had company. In the room known as the library, four men sat smoking; their voices pealed into the hall as the door opened, and a boisterous welcome greeted the newcomer's appearance.
'Come to condole?' cried Hugh, striding forward with his man-of-the-wide-world air, and holding out his big