he risk. Rickman had assured him that
there was no risk, had implied almost that it was an opportunity, a
splendid investment for his money. He could see for himself that it
was his chance of doing _the_ beautiful thing for Lucia. Looking back
upon it all afterwards, long afterwards, he found consolation in the
thought that his first, or nearly his first, impulse had been
generous.

At first, too, he had not given a thought to Rickman except as the
medium, the unauthorized and somewhat curious medium, of a very
startling communication. Enough that he was expected to produce at ten
days' notice a sum which might be anything you pleased over one
thousand two hundred pounds. It was not until he realized that he was
seriously invited to contend with Rickman's in a private bid for the
Harden library that he began to criticize Rickman's movement in the
matter. Everything depended on Rickman's estimate of the risk, and
Rickman was not infallible. In denying Rickman's infallibility he had
not as yet committed himself to any harsh judgement of his friend. His
first really unpleasant reflection was that Rickman's information was
unsatisfactory, because vague; his next that Rickman was giving him
precious little time for deliberation. He was excessively annoyed with
Rickman upon both these heads, but chiefly upon the latter. He was
being hurried; he might almost say that pressure was being put on him.
And why?

It was at this point he found himself drawn into that dangerous line,
the attributing of motives.

He perceived in Rickman's suggestion a readiness, an eagerness to
stand back and, as it were, pass on the Harden library. Rickman was a
sharp fellow; he knew pretty well what he was about. Jewdwine's mind
went back to the dawn of their acquaintance, and to a certain Florio
Montaigne. Rickman had got the better of him over that Florio
Montaigne. Hitherto, whenever Jewdwine had thought of that little
transaction he had smiled in spite of himself; he really could not
help admiring the smartness of a young man who had worsted him in a
bargain. Jewdwine was a terror to all the second-hand booksellers in
London and Oxford; he would waste so much of their good time in
cheapening a book that it was hardly worth their while to sell it to
him at double the price originally asked. The idea that he had paid
five shillings for a book that he should have got for four and six
would keep Jewdwine awake at night. And now his thought advanc