'Considering what services the syndicate have done you in putting your
name before the world----'

This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded Dick of certain vagrant
years lived out in loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. The
memory did not contrast well with the prosperous gentleman who
proposed to enjoy the fruit of those years.

'I don't know quite what to do with you,' began Dick, meditatively. 'Of
course you're a thief, and you ought to be half killed, but in your case
you'd probably die. I don't want you dead on this floor, and, besides, it's
unlucky just as one's moving in. Don't hit, sir; you'll only excite yourself.'

He put one hand on the man's forearm and ran the other down the plump
body beneath the coat. 'My goodness!' said he to Torpenhow, 'and this
gray oaf dares to be a thief! I have seen an Esneh camel-driver have the
black hide taken off his body in strips for stealing half a pound of wet
dates, and he was as tough as whipcord. This things' soft all over--like a
woman.'

There are few things more poignantly humiliating than being handled by
a man who does not intend to strike. The head of the syndicate began to
breathe heavily. Dick walked round him, pawing him, as a cat paws a soft
hearth-rug. Then he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches
underneath the eyes, and shook his head. 'You were going to steal my
things,--mine, mine, mine!--you, who don't know when you may die.

Write a note to your office,--you say you're the head of it,--and order
them to give Torpenhow my sketches,--every one of them. Wait a minute:
your hand's shaking. Now!' He thrust a pocket-book before him. The note