a few of my friends, if I could ensure
your presence."

"When I come down again," Burton promised, "we will discuss it."

He shook hands and hurried away. In less than an hour and a half he was
in Mr. Waddington's rooms. The latter had just arrived from the
office.

"Mr. Waddington," Burton exclaimed, "the little tree on which the beans
grew--where is it?"

Mr. Waddington was taken aback.

"But I picked all the beans," he replied. "There were only the leaves
left."

"Never mind that!" Burton cried. "It is the leaves we want! The
tree--where is it? Quick! I want to feel myself absolutely safe."

Mr. Waddington's face was blank.

"You have heard the translation of those sheets?"

"I have," Burton answered hastily. "I will tell you all about it
directly--as soon as you have brought me the tree."

Mr. Waddington had turned a little pale.

"I gave it to a child in the street, on my way home from Idlemay House,"
he declared. "There was no sign of any more beans coming and I had more
than enough to carry."

Burton sank into a chair and groaned.

"We are lost," he exclaimed, "unless you can find that child! Our cure
is only temporary. We need a leaf each from the tree. I have only
eight months and two weeks more!"

Mr. Waddington staggered to a seat. He produced his own beans and
counted them eagerly.

"A little under eleven months!" he muttered. "We must find the tree!"

CHAPTER XV

THE PROFESSOR INSISTS

Crouched over his writing table, with sheets of manuscript on every side
of him, Burton worked like a slave at his novel. After a week devoted
by Mr. Waddington and himself to a fruitless search for the missing
plant, they had handed the matter over to a private detective and Burton
had settled down to make the most of the time before him. Day after day
of strange joys had dawned and passed away. He had peopled his room
with shadows. Edith had looked at him out of her wonderful eyes, he had
felt the touch of her fingers as she had knelt by his side, the glow
which had crept into his heart as he had read to her fragments of his
story and listened to her words of praise. The wall which he had built
stood firm and fast. He lived in his new days. Life was all
foreground, and hour by hour the splendid fancies came.

It was his first great effort at composition. Those little studies of
his, as he had passed backwards and forwards through the streets and
crowded places, had counted for little. Here he w