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He seated himself beside me with a nod, and for awhile we smoked in silence. "All well with you?" I asked. "I am afraid not," he answered; "the poor fellow is in great trouble." "I'm not Wellbourne himself," he went on, in answer to my look; "I am only his spirit.
For two months I wandered, avoiding beaten tracks, my only comrades a few books, belonging to no age, no country. My worries fell from me, the personal affairs of Paul Kelver ceasing to appear the be all and the end all of the universe. But for a chance meeting with Wellbourne, Deleglise's amateur caretaker of Gower Street fame, I should have delayed yet longer my return.
"No," I answered. "Hodgson never expressed any desire to buy." "Lucky for you," said Wellbourne. I reached London the next evening. Passing the theatre on my way to Queen's Square, it occurred to me to stop my cab for a few minutes and look in. I met the low comedian on his way to his dressing-room. He shook me warmly by the hand. "Well," he said, "we're pulling them in.
"Tom died five weeks ago, quite suddenly, of syncope. We had none of us any idea." So Norah was alone in the world. I rose to my feet. The slowly moving speck had grown into a thin, dark streak; minute by minute it took shape and form. "By the way, I have to congratulate you," said Wellbourne. "Your opera looked like being a big thing when I left London. You didn't sell outright, I hope?"
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