He might, perhaps, have inclined more effectually towards confession had not the petty-cash book appeared to him in the morning light as an admirably convincing piece of work.  It had the most innocent air, and was markedly superior to his recollection of it.  On many pages he himself could scarcely detect his own traces.  He began to feel that he could rely pretty strongly on the cleverness of the petty-cash book.  Only four blank pages remained in it.  A few days more and it would be filled up, finished, labelled with a gummed white label showing its number and the dates of its first and last entries, shelved and forgotten.  A pity that Horrocleave’s suspicions had not been delayed for another month or so, for then the book might have been mislaid, lost, or even consumed in a conflagration!  But never mind!  A certain amount of ill luck fell to every man, and he would trust to his excellent handicraft in the petty-cash book.  It was his only hope in the world, now that the mysterious and heavenly bank-notes were gone.

His attitude towards the bank-notes was, quite naturally, illogical and self-contradictory.  While the bank-notes were in his pocket he had in the end seen three things with clearness.  First, the wickedness of appropriating them.  Second, the danger of appropriating them—­having regard to the prevalent habit of keeping the numbers of bank-notes.  Third, the wild madness of attempting to utilize them in order to replace the stolen petty cash, for by no ingenuity could the presence of a hoard of over seventy pounds in the petty-cash box have been explained.  He had perfectly grasped all that; and yet, the notes having vanished, he felt forlorn, alone, as one who has lost his best friend—­a prop and firm succour in a universe of quicksands.

In the matter of the burning of the notes his conscience did not accuse him.  On the contrary, he emerged blameless from the episode.  It was not he who first had so carelessly left the notes lying about.  He had not searched for them, he had not purloined them.  They had been positively thrust upon him.  His intention in assuming charge of them for a brief space was to teach some negligent person a lesson.  During the evening Fate had given him no opportunity to produce them.  And when in the night, with honesty unimpeachable, he had decided to restore them to the landing, Fate had intervened once more.  At each step of the affair he had acted for the best in difficult circumstances.  Persons so ill-advised as to drop bank-notes under chairs must accept all the consequences of their act.  Who could have foreseen that while he was engaged on the philanthropic errand of fetching a doctor for an aged lady Rachel would light a fire under the notes?...  No, not merely was he without sin in the matter of the bank-notes, he was rather an ill-used person, a martyr deserving of sympathy.  And, further, he did not regret the notes; he was glad they were gone.  They could no longer tempt him now, and their disappearance would