He awoke to Mudd drawing the blinds and to another perfect day—a summer morning, luxurious and warm, beautiful even in London. He had lost clutch of Tidd and Renshaw in the land of sleep, but he had found his strength and self-confidence again.

The terror of Lethmann's disease had vanished; the thing was absurd, he had been frightened by a bogey. Oppenshaw was a clever man, but he was a specialist, always thinking of nerve diseases, living in an atmosphere of them. Sir Ralph Puttick, on the contrary, was a man of solid understanding and wider views—a sane man.

So he told himself as he took "Wednesday" from its case and shaved himself. Then he came down to the same frizzled bacon and the same aired Times, put on the same overcoat and hat, and got into the same old brougham and started for the office.

He went into his room, where his usual morning letters were laid out for him. But he did not take off his coat and hat. He had come to a determination. Oppenshaw had told him to leave the wallet where it was and not take the notes back to the bank, as that would be a weakness. Sir Ralph Puttick was telling him now that Oppenshaw was a fool. The real weakness would be to follow the advice of Oppenshaw. To follow that advice would be to play with this business and confess that there was reality in it; besides, with those notes in the safe behind him he could never do his morning's work.

No; back those notes should go to the bank. He opened the safe, and there was the wallet seated like an evil genius on the deed-box. He took it out and put it under his arm, locked the safe and left the room.

In the outer office all the clerks were busy, and Brownlow was in his room with the door shut.

Simon, with the wallet under his arm, walked out and passed through the precincts of Old Serjeants' Inn to Fleet Street, where a waft of warm summer, yet springlike, wind met him in the face.