It appeared that she was a Good Woman and the daughter of
wealthy and doting parents, and that in all probability West Africa
would see Rufus Cosgrave no more.
So that was the end of their boyhood. Cosgrave had saved himself--or
something outside Stonehouse's strength and wisdom had saved him. They
would meet again and appear to be old friends. But the chapter of
their real friendship, with all its inarticulate romance and
tenderness, was closed finally.
Stonehouse kept the photograph on the table of his consulting-room. He
believed that it amused him.
3
Still he could not work at night. He resumed his haunted prowlings
through the streets. But he took care that he did not pass Francey
Wilmot's house again. He knew now that he was afraid. He was ill,
too, with a secret, causeless malady that baffled him. There were
nights when he suffered the unspeakable torture of a man who feels that
the absolute control over all his faculties, which he has taken for
granted, is slipping from him, and that his whole personality stands on
the verge of disintegration as on the edge of a bottomless pit.
For some weeks he hunted for Mr. Ricardo in vain. He tried all the
favoured spots which a considerate country sets aside for its
detractors and its lunatics so that they may express themselves freely,
without success. Mr. Ricardo seemed to have taken fright and vanished.
But one afternoon, returning from the hospital, Stonehouse met him by
accident, and followed him.
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