what? What right had he to go there at all? What
had he to do with them? What was there for anyone to do? He paused,
then turned and went downstairs again, telling himself that he was a
fool--that he was making mountains of molehills, that there did not
exist, in fact, even a molehill; yet having all the while a sickening
feeling within him, as if some gripping hand had got hold of his poor
physical and material heart, and was squeezing it. His room looked more
gloomy than ever when he got back to it, but it did not matter now,
because he was not going to remain there. He only stopped for a minute
to sweep back into the bureau all those loose papers of Martin Joliffe's
that were lying in a tumble on the open desk-flap. He smiled grimly as
he put them back and locked them in. _Le jour viendra qui tout paiera_.
These papers held a vengeance that would atone for all wrongs.

He took down his heavy and wet-sodden overcoat from the peg in the hall,
and reflected with some satisfaction that the bad weather could not
seriously damage it, for it had turned green with wear, and must be
replaced as soon as he got his next quarter's salary. The rain still
fell heavily, but he _must_ go out. Four walls were too narrow to hold
his chafing mood, and the sadness of outward nature accorded well with a
gloomy spirit. So he shut the street-door noiselessly, and went down
the semicircular flight of stone steps in front of the Hand of God, just
as Lord Blandamer had gone down them on that historic evening when
Anastasia first saw him. He turned back to look at the house, just as
Lord Blandamer had turned back then; but was not so fortunate as his
illustrious predecessor, for Westray's window was tight shut, and there
was no one to be seen.

"I wish I may never look upon the place again," he said to himself, half
in earnest, and half with that cynicism which men affect because they
know Fate seldom takes them at their word.

For an hour or more he wandered aimlessly, and found himself, as night
fell, on the western outskirts of the town, where a small tannery
carries on the last pretence of commercial activity in Cullerne. It is
here that the Cull, which has run for miles under willow and alder,
through deep pastures golden with marsh marigolds or scented with
meadow-sweet, past cuckoo-flower and pitcher-plant and iris and nodding
bulrush, forsakes better traditions, and becomes a common town-sluice
before it deepens at the w