Happening to glance ahead, when not far from home, he saw, at a distance of twenty yards, a man whom he took for Norbert Franks.

The artist was coming toward him, but suddenly he turned round about, and walked rapidly away, disappearing in a moment down a side street.

Franks it certainly was; impossible to mistake his figure, his gait; and Warburton felt sure that the abrupt change of direction was caused by his friend's desire to avoid him.

At the end of the byway he looked, and there was the familiar figure, marching with quick step into the rainy distance.
Odd! but perhaps it simply meant that Franks had not seen him.
He reached home, wrote some letters, made preparations for leaving town by an early train next morning, and dined with his customary appetite.
Whilst smoking his after-dinner pipe, he thought again of that queer little incident in Grosvenor Road, and resolved of a sudden to go and see Franks.

It still rained, so he took advantage of a passing hansom, and drove in a few minutes to the artist's lodging on the south side of Battersea Park.