"There isn't a book even in the glass-case that's worth a five-pound
note," continued Mr. James, whispering, "and he don't look about for
purchases any more. Seems to have lost his pluck."

Mr. Chalker returned to the back-shop.

"Within three weeks, Mr. Emblem," he repeated, and then departed.

Mr. Emblem sat in his chair. He had to find three hundred and fifty
pounds in three weeks. No one knew better than himself that this was
impossible. Within three weeks! But, in three weeks, he would open the
packet of letters, and give Iris her inheritance. At least, she would
not suffer. As for himself--He looked round the little back shop, and
tried to recall the fifty years he had spent there, the books he had
bought and sold, the money which had slipped through his fingers, the
friends who had come and gone. Why, as for the books, he seemed to
remember them every one--his joy in the purchase, his pride in
possession, and his grief at letting them go. All the friends gone
before him, his trade sunk to nothing.

"Yet," he murmured, "I thought it would last my time."

But the clock struck six. It was his tea-time. He rose mechanically,
and went upstairs to Iris.




CHAPTER II.