‘But what did he say?’ gasped Morris.

‘I don’t know as he said much, sir,’ said Bill.  ’But he offered to fight this Pitman for a pot of beer.  He had lost his book, too, and the receipts, and his men were all as mortal as himself.  O, they were all like’—­and Bill paused for a simile—­’like lords!  The superintendent sacked them on the spot.’

‘O, come, but that’s not so bad,’ said Morris, with a bursting sigh.  ’He couldn’t tell where he took the packing-case, then?’

‘Not he,’ said Bill, ‘nor yet nothink else.’

‘And what—­what did Pitman do?’ asked Morris.

‘O, he went off with the barrel in a four-wheeler, very trembling like,’ replied Bill.  ‘I don’t believe he’s a gentleman as has good health.’

‘Well, so the barrel’s gone,’ said Morris, half to himself.

‘You may depend on that, sir,’ returned the porter.  ’But you had better see the superintendent.’

‘Not in the least; it’s of no account,’ said Morris.  ’It only contained specimens.’  And he walked hastily away.

Ensconced once more in a hansom, he proceeded to reconsider his position.  Suppose (he thought), suppose he should accept defeat and declare his uncle’s death at once?  He should lose the tontine, and with that the last hope of his seven thousand eight hundred pounds.  But on the other hand, since the shilling to the hansom cabman, he had begun to see that crime was expensive in its course, and, since the loss of the water-butt, that it was uncertain in its consequences.  Quietly at first, and then with growing heat, he reviewed the advantages of backing out.  It involved a loss; but (come to think of it) no such great loss after all; only that of the tontine, which had been always a toss-up, which at bottom he had never really expected.  He reminded himself of that eagerly; he congratulated himself upon his constant moderation.  He had never really expected the tontine; he had never even very definitely hoped to recover his seven thousand eight hundred pounds; he had been hurried into the whole thing by Michael’s obvious dishonesty.  Yes, it would probably be better to draw back from this high-flying venture, settle back on the leather business—­

‘Great God!’ cried Morris, bounding in the hansom like a Jack-in-a-box.  ’I have not only not gained the tontine—­I have lost the leather business!’

Such was the monstrous fact.  He had no power to sign; he could not draw a cheque for thirty shillings.  Until he could produce legal evidence of his uncle’s death, he was a penniless outcast—­and as soon as he produced it he had lost the tontine!  There was no hesitation on the part of Morris; to drop the tontine like a hot chestnut, to concentrate all his forces on the leather business and the rest of his small but legitimate inheritance, was the decision of a single instant.  And the next, the full extent of his calamity was suddenly disclosed to him.  Declare his uncle’s death?  He couldn’t!  Since the body was lost Joseph had (in a legal sense) become immortal.