ound me in this state, and know what
followed."

CHAPTER XXII.

This narrative threw new light on the character of Welbeck. If accident
had given him possession of this treasure, it was easy to predict on
what schemes of luxury and selfishness it would have been expended. The
same dependence on the world's erroneous estimation, the same devotion
to imposture, and thoughtlessness of futurity, would have constituted
the picture of his future life, as had distinguished the past.

This money was another's. To retain it for his own use was criminal. Of
this crime he appeared to be as insensible as ever. His own
gratification was the supreme law of his actions. To be subjected to the
necessity of honest labour was the heaviest of all evils, and one from
which he was willing to escape by the commission of suicide.

The volume which he sought was mine. It was my duty to restore it to the
rightful owner, or, if the legal claimant could not be found, to employ
it in the promotion of virtue and happiness. To give it to Welbeck was
to consecrate it to the purpose of selfishness and misery. My right,
legally considered, was as valid as his.

But, if I intended not to resign it to him, was it proper to disclose
the truth and explain by whom the volume was purloined from the shelf?
The first impulse was to hide this truth; but my understanding had been
taught, by recent occurrences, to question the justice and deny the
usefulness of secrecy in any case. My principles were true; my motives
were pure: why should I scruple to avow my principles and vindicate my
actions?

Welbeck had ceased to be dreaded or revered. That awe which was once
created by his superiority of age, refinement of manners, and dignity
of garb, had vanished. I was a boy in years, an indigent and uneducated
rustic; but I was able to discern the illusions of power and riches, and
abjured every claim to esteem that was not founded on integrity. There
was no tribunal before which I should falter in asserting the truth, and
no species of martyrdom which I would not cheerfully embrace in its
cause.

After some pause, I said, "Cannot you conjecture in what way this volume
has disappeared?"

"No," he answered, with a sigh. "Why, of all his volumes, this only
should have vanished, was an inexplicable enigma."

"Perhaps," said I, "it is less important to know how it was removed,
than by whom it is now possessed."

"Unquestionably; and yet, unless that kno