statue at the Quay-head.  He had observed, in the ports he had visited abroad, such statues erected in memory of men he had never heard tell of.  It would be a mighty fine thing—­though a novelty in Polpier—­to have one’s memory kept alive in this fashion. . . .  He would lord it in life too, as became a Nanjivell—­albeit the last of the race.  To the Penhaligon family he would be specially kind. . . .  Upon other deserving ones he would confer surprising help by stealth. . . .  He wished now that, in spite of experience, he had married and begotten children—­an heir at least.  It would be a fine thing to restore the stock to a prospect of honour.  He wondered that in the past he had never realised his plain duty in this light and taken the risk.  As it was, the old name could only be preserved in a commonalty’s gratitude.

The flagged floor galled him cruelly; for he was of lean build.  Shift his posture or his weight as he might, after a few seconds’ ease his haunch-pins were pressing again upon the pavement, with no cushion of flesh but a crushed nerve or two that kept telephoning misery to his knee and fetching fierce darts of pain for response.  A quick succession of these, running into one as though a red-hot iron had been applied under the thigh, searing it to the very bone, stabbed suddenly into his brain with a new terror.  He had forgotten the anonymous letter and its threat!

He was a rich man now.  The business of a rich man was to stay at home and preserve his riches while making use of them-like Pamphlett.  Who in this world ever heard of a rich man being hauled off to serve in the Navy as a common seaman?  The thing was unprecedented.  He could buy himself out; at the worst by paying up the money he had drawn.

Yes, but this would involve disclosing his wealth, and the source of it. . . .  He was terribly afraid of publicity.  He had enemies, as the letter proved:  he suspected that the law itself might be another enemy—­you could never predict which side the law would take—­and between them, if they got to know his secret, they would despoil him. . . .  On the other hand if, covering his secret, he opposed but a passive resistance, they might carry him off to jail, and then all this money would be laid bare to the world.  Intolerable exposure!

He must hide it. . . .  He must count it, and then—­having staved off Pamphlett—­hide it tomorrow with all speed and cunning.  When would the dawn come?

The sun, in the longitude of Polpier, was actually due to rise a few minutes before five o’clock.  But Polpier (as I have told) lies in a deep cleft of the hills.  Nicky-Nan’s parlour looked out on a mere slit at the bottom of that cleft; and, moreover, the downfall of plaster blocked half the lower portion of its tiny dirty window.

What with one hindrance and another, it was almost a quarter past five before daylight began to glimmer in the parlour.  It found him on his knees—­not in prayer, nor in thanksgiving, but eagerly feeling over the grey pile of rubbish and digging into it with clawed fingers.