“No.  Have you any?”

“I am afraid I have not.  All my inquiries have yielded negative results.  There is, of course, a considerable body of evidence, and it all seems to point one way.  But I am unwilling to make a decisive move without something more definite.  I am really waiting for confirmation or otherwise of my ideas on the subject; for some new item of evidence.”

“I didn’t know there was any evidence.”

“Didn’t you?” said Thorndyke.  “But you know as much as I know.  You have all the essential facts; but apparently you haven’t collated them and extracted their meaning.  If you had, you would have found them curiously significant.”

“I suppose I mustn’t ask what their significance is?”

“No, I think not.  When I am conducting a case I mention my surmises to nobody—­not even to Jervis.  Then I can say confidently that there has been no leakage.  Don’t think I distrust you.  Remember that my thoughts are my client’s property, and that the essence of strategy is to keep the enemy in the dark.”

“Yes, I see that.  Of course, I ought not to have asked.”

“You ought not to need to ask,” Thorndyke replied, with a smile; “you should put the facts together and reason from them yourself.”

While we had been talking I had noticed Thorndyke glance at me inquisitively from time to time.  Now, after an interval of silence, he asked suddenly: 

“Is anything amiss, Berkeley?  Are you worrying about your friends’ affairs?”

“No, not particularly; though their prospects don’t look very rosy.”

“Perhaps they are not quite so bad as they look,” said he.  “But I am afraid something is troubling you.  All your gay spirits seem to have evaporated.”  He paused for a few moments, and then added:  “I don’t want to intrude on your private affairs, but if I can help you by advice or otherwise, remember that we are old friends and that you are my academic offspring.”

Instinctively, with a man’s natural reticence, I began to mumble a half-articulate disclaimer; and then I stopped.  After all, why should I not confide in him?  He was a good man and a wise man, full of human sympathy, as I knew, though so cryptic and secretive in his professional capacity.  And I wanted a friend badly just now.

“I am afraid,” I began shyly, “it is not a matter that admits of much help, and it’s hardly the sort of thing that I ought to worry you by talking about——­”

“If it is enough to make you unhappy, my dear fellow, it is enough to merit serious consideration by your friend; so, if you don’t mind telling me——­”

“Of course I don’t, sir!” I exclaimed.

“Then fire away; and don’t call me ‘sir.’  We are brother practitioners now.”

Thus encouraged, I poured out the story of my little romance; bashfully at first and with halting phrases, but, later, with more freedom and confidence.  He listened with grave attention, and once or twice put a question when my narrative became a little disconnected.  When I had finished he laid his hand softly on my arm.