ncing them rapidly through.

"Do you know where I can find Dorrington?" he said. "I want that
letter--the Peyton letter, you know."

Huntley nodded.

"I've got it in my pocket," he said. "I was keeping it until
to-morrow."

Saton held out his hand.

"I'll take it," he said. "I can arrange terms for this matter myself."

Huntley looked at him in surprise.

"It isn't often," he remarked, "that you care to interfere with this
side of the game. Sure you're not running any risk? We can't do
without our professor, you know."

Saton shivered a little.

"No! I am running no risk," he said. "It happens that I have a chance
of settling this fairly well."

He had a few more instructions to give. Afterwards he left the place.
The night outside was close, and he was conscious of a certain
breathlessness, a certain impatient desire for air. He turned down
toward the Embankment, and sat on one of the seats, looking out at
the sky signs and colored advertisements on the other side of the
river, and down lower, where the tall black buildings lost their
outline in the growing dusk.

His thoughts travelled backwards. It seemed to him that once more he
sat upon the hillside and built for himself dream houses, saw himself
fighting a splendid battle, gathering into his life all the great
joys, the mysterious emotions which one may wrest from fate. Once more
he thrilled with the subtle pleasure of imagined triumphs. Then the
note of reality had come. Rochester's voice sounded in his ears. His
dreams were to become true. The sword was to be put into his hand. The
strength was to be given him. The treasure-houses of the world were
to fly open at his touch. And then once more he seemed to hear
Rochester's voice, cold and penetrating. "_Anything but failure! If
you fail, swim out on a sunny day, and wait until the waves creep over
your neck, over your head, and you sink! The men who fail are the
creatures of the gutter!_"

Saton gripped the sides of his seat. He felt himself suddenly choking.
He rose and turned away.

"It would have been better! It would have been better!" he muttered to
himself.

CHAPTER XIV

PETTY WORRIES

Saton threw down the letter which he had been reading, with a little
exclamation of impatience. It was from a man whom, on the strength of
an acquaintance which had certainly bordered upon friendship, he had
asked to propose him at a certain well-known club.

_"My dear Mr. Saton," it ran,