Mr. Locket's movements, as he hovered near the relics of the eminent
statesman, were those of some feathered parent fluttering over a
threatened nest. If he had brought his huddled brood back with him
this morning it was because he had felt sure enough of closing the
bargain to be able to be graceful. He kept a glittering eye on the
papers and remarked that he was afraid that before leaving them he
must elicit some assurance that in the meanwhile Peter would not
place them in any other hands. Peter, at this, gave a laugh of
harsher cadence than he intended, asking, justly enough, on what
privilege his visitor rested such a demand and why he himself was
disqualified from offering his wares to the highest bidder. "Surely
you wouldn't hawk such things about?" cried Mr. Locket; but before
Baron had time to retort cynically he added: "I'll publish your
little story."

"Oh, thank you!"

"I'll publish anything you'll send me," Mr. Locket continued, as he
went out. Peter had before this virtually given his word that for
the letters he would treat only with the Promiscuous.

The young man passed, during a portion of the rest of the day, the
strangest hours of his life. Yet he thought of them afterwards not
as a phase of temptation, though they had been full of the emotion
that accompanies an intense vision of alternatives. The struggle was
already over; it seemed to him that, poor as he was, he was not poor
enough to take Mr. Locket's money. He looked at the opposed courses
with the self-possession of a man who has chosen, but this self-
possession was in itself the most exquisite of excitements. It was