Burton suddenly sat up in his chair.

“What are those sheets of paper you have on the table?” he asked quickly.

“They are the sheets of paper left with the little flower-pot in the room of Idlemay House,” Mr. Waddington answered.  “I was just looking them through and wondering what language it was they were written in.  It is curious, too, that our friend should have only translated the last few lines.”

Burton rose from his chair and leaned over the table, looking at them with keen interest.

“It was about those papers that I started out to come and see you,” he declared.  “There must be some way by which we could make the action of these beans more permanent.  I propose that we get the rest of the pages translated.  We may find them most valuable.”

Mr. Waddington was rather inclined to favor the idea.

“I cannot think,” he admitted, “why it never occurred to us before.  Whom do you propose to take them to?”

“There is some one I know who lives a little way down in the country,” Burton replied.  “He is a great antiquarian and Egyptologist, and if any one can translate them, I should think he would be able to.  Lend me the sheets of manuscript just as they are, and I will take them down to him to-morrow.  It may tell us, perhaps, how to deal with the plant so that we can get more of the beans.  Eight months is no use to me.  When I am like this, just drifting back, everything seems possible.  I can even see myself back at Clematis Villa, walking with Ellen, listening to the band, leaning over the bar of the Golden Lion.  Listen!”

He stopped short.  A barrel organ outside was playing a music hall ditty.  His head kept time to the music.

“I wish I had my banjo!” he exclaimed, impulsively.  Then he shivered.  “Did you hear that?  A banjo!  I used to play it, you know.”

Mr. Waddington looked shocked.

“The banjo!” he repeated.  “Do you really mean that you want to play it at the present moment?”

“I do,” Burton replied.  “If I had it with me now, I should play that tune.  I should play others like it.  Everything seems to be slipping away from me.  I can smell the supper cooking in my little kitchen at Clematis Villa.  Delicious!  My God, I can’t bear it any longer!  Here goes!”

He took a bean from his pocket with trembling fingers and swallowed it.  Then he leaned back in his chair for several moments with closed eyes.  When he opened them again, an expression of intense relief was upon his face.

“I am coming back already,” he declared faintly.  “Thank Heavens!  Mr. Waddington, your room is charming, sir.  Japanese prints, too!  I had no idea that you were interested in them.  That third one is exquisite.  And what a dado!”

“Hewlings himself designed it for me,” Mr. Waddington observed, with satisfaction.  “There are several things I should like you to notice, Burton.  That lacquer-work box!”