he chance. You can expect me on the
twentieth."

Beside writing to his father, he had done the only honest and
straightforward thing that was left for him to do. He had written to
Horace Jewdwine. That was indeed what he ought to have done at the
very first. He could see it now, the simple, obvious duty that had
been staring him in the face all the time. He hardly cared to think
what subtle but atrocious egoism of passion had prevented him from
disclosing to Jewdwine the fact of his presence at Court House; even
now he said nothing about the two weeks that he had spent working with
Jewdwine's cousin. The catalogue _raisonne_ was so bound up with the
history of his passion that the thing had become a catalogue
_raisonne_ of its vicissitudes. Some instinct, not wholly selfish,
told him that the least said about that the better. He wrote on the
assumption that Jewdwine knew (as he might very well have done) the
truth about the Harden library, briefly informing him that they,
Rickman's, had been or rather would be in treaty with Mr. Pilkington
for the purchase; but that he, Savage Keith Rickman, considered it was
only fair to suggest that Mr. Jewdwine or some other member of Sir
Frederick Harden's family should have the option of buying it,
provided it could be so arranged with Mr. Pilkington. As Jewdwine was
probably aware, the library represented security for one thousand
pounds; whereas Rickman estimated its market value at four or even
five times as much. But as Mr. Pilkington was not inclined to let it
go for less than one thousand two hundred, Jewdwine had better be
prepared to offer a little more than that sum. If Jewdwine felt
inclined to act on this suggestion Rickman would be glad if he would
let him know within the next ten days; as otherwise his father would
be obliged to close with Mr. Pilkington in due form after the
twenty-seventh. Would he kindly wire an acknowledgement of the letter?

Jewdwine had wired from London, "Thanks. Letter received; will write."
That was on the seventeenth, and it was now the twenty-seventh and
Jewdwine had not written. Rickman should have been back in London long
before that time; he had allowed himself four days to finish his
horrible work; and he had finished it. But as it happened the end of
twelve days found him still in Harmouth. Seven of them passed without
his being very vividly aware of them, though up till now he had kept a
strict account of time. Two weeks once struck