Then he replaced it, with the sketches, in the drawer, forgetting in his excitement the letters which lay scattered on the table.
What should he do now?
Impossible to settle down to any work! The North post had gone, but he might telegraph to Phoebe and write later.

Meanwhile he would go over to Chelsea, and see Cuningham and Watson--repay Watson his debt!--or promise it at least for the morrow, when he should have had time to cash the cheque--perhaps even--pompous thought!--to open a banking account.
Suddenly a remembrance of Morrison crossed his mind and he stood a moment with bent head--sobered--as though a ghost passed through the room.

Must he send a hundred pounds to Mrs.Morrison?
He envisaged it, unwillingly.

Already his treasure seemed to be melting away.

Time enough, surely, for that.