e auction-
rooms, and had the confounded book in his hand, at an hour when, as _he_
asserted, he had left the place for some time. It was admitted by one of
the people employed at the sale-rooms that Allen had been noticed (he was
well known there) leaving the house at three. But he must have come back
again, of course, as at least four people could have sworn to his
presence in the show-room at a quarter to four o'clock. When he was
asked in a private interview, by the Head of his College, to say where he
went after leaving Blocksby's Allen refused to answer. He merely said
that he could not prove the facts; that his own word would not be taken
against that of so many unprejudiced and even friendly witnesses. He
simply threw up the game. He resigned his fellowship; he took his name
off the books; he disappeared.

There was a good deal of talk; people spoke about the unscrupulousness of
collectors, and repeated old anecdotes on that subject. Then the
business was forgotten. Next, in a year's time or so, the book--the
confounded Longepierre's Theocritus--was found in a pawnbroker's shop.
The history of its adventures was traced beyond a shadow of doubt. It
had been very adroitly stolen, and disposed of, by a notorious
book-thief, a gentleman by birth--now dead, but well remembered. Ask Mr.
Quaritch!

Allen's absolute innocence was thus demonstrated beyond cavil, though
nobody paid any particular attention to the demonstration. As for Allen,
he had vanished; he was heard of no more.

He was _here_; dying here, beside the black wave of lone Loch Nan.

All this, so long in the telling, I had time enough to think over, as I
sat and watched him, and wiped his lips with water from the burn, clearer
and sweeter than the water of the loch.

At last his fit of coughing ceased, and a kind of peace came into his
face.

"Allen, my dear old boy," I said--I don't often use the language of
affection--"did you never hear that all that stupid story was cleared up;
that everyone knows you are innocent?"

He only shook his head; he did not dare to speak, but he looked happier,
and he put his hand in mine.

I sat holding his hand, stroking it. I don't know how long I sat there;
I had put my coat and waterproof under him. He was "wet through," of
course; there was little use in what I did. What could I do with him?
how bring him to a warm and dry place?

The idea seemed to strike him, for he half rose and pointed to