had taken a sudden turn, and had grown rapidly well.
Her parents had been anxious to give her a change, therefore, disregarding infection, I sent her down to an hotel at Eastbourne, and I was not really surprised when, two or three weeks afterwards, there had been a mysterious out-break of the same disease in that establishment.
But I said nothing, neither did any of the Warren family.
James Farnell, who was father of the bride-groom, invited me to visit him in Fitzjohn's Avenue, Hampstead, where he lived.
Later on, while chatting with the bride's father after the pair had left for their honeymoon, I learnt that Farnell senior was a wealthy man who dabbled in the City, and was director of two important companies, and chairman of a big shipbuilding firm at Gates-head.
Strange, Brown, what an attractive scent money always has for me.
As soon as I knew that he was really wealthy—and not one of those useless ones who live up to every penny of their income—I resolved to cultivate his acquaintance. Hence, three days later, I called at the big, red-brick, detached house half-way up the hill from
