into the action of
quicklime, his endeavours to foment a quarrel between Edwin Drood and
a fiery young gentleman from Ceylon, on the night of the murder, and
his undoubted doctoring of the latter's drink. Then, after the murder,
how damaging is his conduct. He falls into a kind of fit on
discovering that his nephew's engagement had been broken off, which he
might well do if his crime turned out to be not only a crime but also
a blunder. And his conduct to the girl is, to say the least of it,
strange. Nor will his character help him. He frequents the opium dens
of the East-end of London. Guilty, guilty, most certainly guilty.
There is nothing to be said in arrest of judgment. Let the judge put
on the black cap, and Jasper be devoted to his merited doom.

Such was the story that Dickens was unravelling in the spring and
early summer of 1870. And fortune smiled upon it. He had sold the
copyright for the large sum of L7,500, and a half share of the profits
after a sale of twenty-five thousand copies, plus L1,000 for the
advance sheets sent to America; and the sale was more than answering
his expectations. Nor did prosperity look favourably on the book
alone. It also, in one sense, showered benefits on the author. He was
worth, as the evidence of the Probate Court was to show only too soon,
a sum of over L80,000. He was happy in his children. He was
universally loved, honoured, courted. "Troops of friends," though,
alas! death had made havoc among the oldest, were still his. Never had
man exhibited less inclination to pay fawning court to greatness and
social rank. Yet when the Queen expressed a desire to see him, as she
did in March, 1870, he felt not only pride, but a gentleman's pleasure
in acceding to her wish, and came away charmed from a long chatting
interview. But, while prosperity was smiling thus, the shadows of his
day of life were lengthening, lengthening, and the night was at hand.

On Wednesday, June 8th, he seemed in excellent spirits; worked all the
morning in the Chalet[35] as was his wont, returned to the house for
lunch and a cigar, and then, being anxious to get on with "Edwin
Drood," went back to his desk once more. The weather was superb. All
round the landscape lay in fullest beauty of leafage and flower, and
the air rang musically with the song of birds. What were his thoughts
that summer day as he sat there at his work? Writing many years
before, he had asked whether the "subtle liquor of the blood