Burton’s life moved for a time among the easy places.  The sub-editor of the Piccadilly Gazette, to which he still contributed, voluntarily increased his scale of pay and was insatiable in his demand for copy.  Burton moved into pleasant rooms in a sunny corner of an old-fashioned square.  He sent Ellen three pounds a week—­all she would accept—­and save for a dull pain at his heart which seldom left him, he found much pleasure in life.  Then came the first little break in the clear sky.  Mr. Waddington came in to see him one day and Mr. Waddington was looking distinctly worried.  He was neatly and tastefully dressed, and his demeanor had lost all its old offensiveness.  His manner, too, was immensely improved.  His tone was almost gentle.  Nevertheless, there was a perplexed frown upon his forehead and an anxious look in his eyes.

“Business all right, I hope?” Burton asked him, after he had welcomed his late employer, installed him in an easy chair and pushed a box of cigarettes towards him.

“It is better than all right,” Mr. Waddington replied.  “It is wonderful.  We have never had such crowds at the sales, and I have taken on four more clerks in the house-letting department.”

Burton laughed softly.  The humor of the auctioneer’s position appealed to him immensely.

“I am making money fast,” Mr. Waddington admitted, without enthusiasm.  “Another year or two of this and I could retire comfortably.”

“Then what,” Burton asked, “is the worry?”

Mr. Waddington smoked vigorously for a moment.  “Has it ever occurred to you, Burton,” he inquired, “to ask yourself whether this peculiar state, in which you and I find ourselves, may be wholly permanent?”

Burton was genuinely startled.  He sat looking at his visitor like one turned to stone.  The prospect called up by that simple question was appalling.  His cigarette burned idly away between his fingers.  The shadow of fear lurked in his eyes.

“Not permanent?” he repeated.  “I never thought of that.  Why do you ask?”

Mr. Waddington scratched his chin thoughtfully.  It was not a graceful proceeding, and Burton, with a sinking heart, remembered that this was one of his employer’s old habits.  He scrutinized his visitor more closely.  Although his appearance at first sight was immaculate, there were certain alarming symptoms to be noted.  His linen collar was certainly doing service for the second time, and Burton noticed with dismay a slight revival of the auctioneer’s taste for loud colors in his shirt and socks.

“It was yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Waddington continued.  “I was selling an oak chest.  I explained that it was not a genuine antique but that it had certainly some claims to antiquity on account of its design.  That seemed to me to be a very fair way of putting it.  Then I saw a man, who was very keen on buying it, examining the brass handles.  He looked up at me.  ‘Why, the handles are genuine!’ he exclaimed.  ’They’re real old brass, anyway!’ Now I knew quite well, Burton, that those handles, though they were extraordinarily near the real thing, were not genuine.  I opened my mouth to tell him so, and then, Burton, do you know that I hesitated?”