Siccus is a living garden, or
a mummy a live Prometheus. He wrote at last: 'I cannot bear this
banishment in nearness, and if I am not to see you I must go away. I
have had a night of fever, and have not slept I dare not trust myself
to write, but for pity's sake let me have an answer by the messenger who
brings this.'

He fixed in his mind ten o'clock as the earliest possible hour at which
he could venture to have the note delivered, and until then he must
needs have patience. When he went to place his missive in the hands
of the concierge, with instructions for the time of its delivery, the
servants had only just begun to stir about the house. He had come down
great-coated and gloved, as if for an early walk, but the walk was no
more than a pretext to allay some remotely imaginable suspicion on the
part of the concierge.

'Imust leave this with you now,' he said, 'because it must be delivered
at ten o'clock precisely, and I shall probably not be able to return
till later. The messenger will wait for an answer.'

The man promised that his instructions should be obeyed, and he walked
into the streets feeling quite aimless and forlorn, and with the
fatigues of the night still heavy on him. He had not gone far when he
found a fiacre, and bade the man drive to the Bois and back, and fill
up two hours with the journey. Now, the chill morning air and the bright
light falling on tired eyes began to work upon him, and in a little
while he was peacefully asleep. The cocher awoke him at the door of his
hotel. He looked at his watch, and it was ten o'clock to the minute. His
heart turned a somersault as he thought that this was the hour at which
Gertrude would receive his letter. Breakfast was out of question, but
by this time either the Bodega or the English bar would be open, and
he needed a stimulant of some sort before he could face an interview
if such a favour were to be accorded him. It would be unreasonable to
expect that the messenger would return in less than half an hour, and he
spent that time in the society of a glass of well-watered absinthe and
the English newspapers of yesterday. He read industriously, but the
only printed words which reached his consciousness were those of the
theatrical advertisement which told him that the joint work of Messrs.
George Darco and Paul Armstrong was still being played nightly to
crowded houses. That did not interest him in the least, and the news
of Parliament and the police co