dreading lest he
should forget.

"Thanks very much, sir. I--a friend of mine told me I was wrong. I knew
I wasn't--thanks awfully!"

The white-haired man smiled approval, and returned to his study of the
news. Christopher kept spelling the word in silence, and though the
weather was very cold, soon perspired under the dread that he had got a
letter wrong. At St. George's Church agitation quite overcame him; he
hurried from the car, ran into a by-street, and with his pocket pencil
wrote on the blank sheet of paper "Hygiene." Yes, he had it right. It
looked right. Now for the nearest letter-box.

But his faith in "Hygiene" had risen to such fervour that he dreaded
the delay of postal delivery. Why not carry the letter himself to the
editorial office, which was at no very great distance? He would, even
though it made him late at Swettenham's. And he began to run.

Panting, but exultant, he delivered his answer in the national
competition, thus gaining a march upon the unhappy multitudes who dwelt
far away, and whose resource and energy fell short of his. Then he
looked at the time and was frightened; he would be dreadfully
unpunctual at business; Swettenham's might meet him with stern rebuke.
There was nothing for it, he hailed a cab.

Only in the middle of the morning did he remember that he had in his
pocket a love-letter to Polly Sparkes, which he had meant to post
early. He had seen Polly a few days ago, and suspected that she was in
some sort of trouble and difficulty, possibly--though she denied
it--caused by her want of employment. Polly declared that she had
resources which enabled her to take a holiday. Not very long ago such a
statement would have racked Christopher with jealous suspicions;
suspicious he was, and a little uneasy, but not to the point of mental
torture. The letter in his pocket declared that he could never cease to
love Polly, and that he groaned over the poverty which condemned him to
idle hopes; for all that, he thought much less of her just now than of
the missing word. And when, in the luncheon hour, he posted his amorous
missive, it was with almost a careless hand.

On this same day it happened that Mr. Gammon, speeding about his
business in Messrs. Quodlings' neat little trap, found he could
conveniently stop for a midday meal somewhere near Battersea Park Road.
The boy who accompanied him took the horse to bait, and Mr. Gammon
presently directed his steps to the little china shop.