“Well, what?” asked Marcus Wilkeson, laughing in anticipation.

“Ha! ha! cut it up, and sold it for window curtains.  A friend of mine, who passed through there the other day, says there’s a picture of a lion, or a palm tree, or a slice of a desert—­principally desert—­hung up in every other window.  And the best of it is, that they made a good thing of it.  The curtains brought at least twice what I owed them.  Great heavens! why didn’t I think of it myself?”

“Of what?”

“Why, to cut up the panorama into window curtains, when Patching had finished it, and—­ha! ha!—­peddle them through the country.  By Jupiter! that speculation may be worth trying yet.  But at present I have my new patent process for——­”

Marcus coughed, and opened the book.  Tiffles accepted the delicate hint in a spirit of true friendship, and let his new patent process drop.

“Marcus,” said he, “I don’t wish to revive an unpleasant subject; but have you no idea what the late Mr. Minford was trying to invent?”

“Not the least.  I never trouble myself about inventions, as you well know, who are full of them.  Besides, poor Mr. Minford was not communicative on that subject.  He kept the secret even from his daughter.”

“You have a claim on the apparatus, whatever it is.”

“Yes.  Mr. Minford insisted on giving me a paper to that effect, as security for two loans of five hundred dollars each.  I took it to please the old gentleman.”  Marcus felt like groaning, as he thought of the sorrows that he had derived from his connection with the Minford family; but he had just been reading of the consolations of philosophy, and he stifled the rising weakness.

“I have thought, Marcus, that there might be something about that unfinished machine that could be patented for the benefit of Miss Minford.  You know I am a good judge of patentable things.”

“What do you propose, then?” asked Marcus, concealing, with an effort, the emotions which the mention of Miss Minford always caused.”

“That we go to the house together.  The legal claim which you hold upon the machine entitles you to see it, if only to ascertain that it has not been stolen.”

“The visit you propose is a disagreeable one; but if you think there is a possibility of benefiting Miss Minford, I will go.  Not that she is likely to be in want, however, at present, for I understand that a wealthy lady, Mrs. Crull, who befriended her at the inquest, you remember, has taken her to her own house.”

Without further words—­for Marcus retained his old business habit of forming his conclusions suddenly, and adhering to them—­the friends proceeded to the late residence of Mr. Minford.

Marcus had not yet philosophically conquered his dread of recognition in the street as the man who had been suspected of a murder.  He buttoned his overcoat up to his chin, pulled his hat over his brow, and walked fast.  As he had purposely altered his style of dress since the inquest, he was not readily identified.  But he was sympathetically conscious that several persons whom he passed, and who glanced at him, knew him, and that he was pointed out to others when his back was turned.