tip of his
protruding tongue.

At this point Mr. Bennett lights his candle--one of the charms of
Windles was the old-world simplicity of its lighting system--and we are
enabled to get a better view of him.

Mr. Bennett sat in the candlelight with his tongue out and the first
beads of a chilly perspiration bedewing his forehead. It was impossible
for a man of his complexion to turn pale, but he had turned as pale as
he could. Panic gripped him. A man whose favourite reading was medical
encyclopaedias, he needed no doctor to tell him that this was the end.
Fate had dealt him a knockout blow; his number was up; and in a very
short while now people would be speaking of him in the past tense and
saying what a pity it all was.

A man in Mr. Bennett's position experiences strange emotions, and many
of them. In fact, there are scores of writers, who, reckless of the cost
of white paper, would devote two chapters at this point to an analysis
of the unfortunate man's reflections and be glad of the chance. It is
sufficient, however, merely to set on record that there was no stint.
Whatever are the emotions of a man in such a position, Mr. Bennett had
them. He had them all, one after another, some of them twice. He went
right through the list from soup to nuts, until finally he reached
remorse. And, having reached remorse, he allowed that to monopolise him.

In his early days, when he was building up his fortune, Mr. Bennett had
frequently done things to his competitors in Wall Street which would not
have been tolerated in the purer atmosphere of a lumber-camp, and, if he
was going to be remorseful about anything, he might well have started by
being remorseful about that. But it was on his most immediate past that
his wistful mind lingered. He had quarrelled with his lifelong friend,
Henry Mortimer. He had broken off his daughter's engagement with a
deserving young man. He had spoken harsh words to his faithful valet.
The more Mr. Bennett examined his conduct, the deeper the iron entered
into his soul.

Fortunately, none of his acts were irreparable. He could undo them. He
could make amends. The small hours of the morning are not perhaps the
most suitable time for making amends, but Mr. Bennett was too remorseful
to think of that. Do It Now had ever been his motto, so he started by
ringing the bell for Webster.

The same writers who would have screamed with joy at the chance of
dilating on Mr. Bennett's emotions would find