ing that
here would be no midday dinner for him at home, his first step was to
feed heavily at a restaurant. He had, so far as he could see,
surmounted all his troubles, his one regret being that he had lost his
pack, which contained among other things his Izaak Walton and his
safety razor. He bought another razor and a new Walton, and mounted an
electric tram car en route for home.

Very contented with himself he felt as the car swung across the Clyde
bridge. He had done well--but of that he did not want to think, for
the whole beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that memory, to
be resurrected perhaps on a later day when the unpleasantness had been
forgotten. Heritage had his address, and knew where to come when it
was time to claim the jewels. As for the watchers, they must have
ceased to suspect him, when they discovered the innocent contents of
his knapsack and Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a luxurious tea
by his own fireside; and then an evening with his books, for Heritage's
nonsense had stimulated his literary fervour. He would dip into his
old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow he would go for a
jaunt somewhere--perhaps down the Clyde, or to the South of England,
which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled country. No more
lonely inns and deserted villages for him; henceforth he would make
certain of comfort and peace.

The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved down the dreary vista of
Eglinton street, the sky opened into fields of blue and the April sun
silvered the puddles. It was in such place and under such weather that
Dickson suffered an overwhelming experience.

It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the game of
psycho-analysis, to explain how this thing happened. I concern myself
only with facts. Suddenly the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent
from top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of himself within, a smug
leaden little figure which simpered and preened itself and was hollow
as a rotten nut. And he hated it.

The horrid truth burst on him that Heritage had been right. He only
played with life. That imbecile image was a mere spectator, content to
applaud, but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had been all
right as a provision merchant, but when it fancied itself capable of
higher things it had deceived itself. Foolish little image with its
brave dreams and its swelling words from Browning! All make-believe of
the feebles