In Which Ronald Barrymaine Speaks His Mind

"Do you mean he has left you?"

"Yes, sir. We had words this morning--a good many and, the end of it
was--he departed--for good, and all on your account!"

"My account?"

"And with a month's rent due, not to mention the Spanswick's wages,
and she has a tongue! 'Oh, Death, where is thy sting?'"

"But how on my account?"

"Sir, in a word, he resented my friendship for you. Sir, Barrymaine
is cursed proud, but so am I--as Lucifer! Sir, when the blood of a
Smivvle is once curdled, it's curdled most damnably, and the heart
of a Smivvle,--as all the world knows,--becomes a--an accursed flint,
sir." Here Mr. Smivvle shook his head and sighed again. "Though I
can't help wondering what the poor fellow will do without me at hand
to--ah--pop round the corner for him. By the way, do you happen to
remember if you fastened the front door securely?"

"No."

"I ask because the latch is faulty,--like most things about
here,--and in this delightful Garden of Hatton and the--ah--hot-beds
adjoining there are weeds, sir, of the rambling species which, given
opportunity--will ramble anywhere. Several of 'em--choice exotics,
too! have found their way up here lately,--one of 'em got in here
this very morning after Barrymaine had gone,--characteristic
specimen in a fur cap. But, as I was saying, you may have noticed
that Chichester is not altogether--friendly towards you?"

"Chichester?" said Barnabas. "Yes!"

"And it would almost seem that he's determined that Barrymaine
shall--be the same. Poor fellow's been very strange lately,--Gaunt's
been pressing him again worse than ever,--even threatened him with
the Marshalsea. Consequently, the flowing bowl has continually
brimmed--Chichester's doing, of course,--and he seems to consider
you his mortal enemy, and--in short, I think it only right to--put
you on your guard."