From the house at Campden Hill he came away in a strangely excited mood; glad, sorry; cold, desirous; torn this way and that by conflict of passions and reasons.  The only clear thought in his mind was that he had done a great act of justice.  How often does it fall to a man to enjoy this privilege?  Not once in a lifetime to the multitude such opportunity is the signal favour of fate.  Had he let it pass, Piers felt he must have sunk so in his own esteem, that no light of noble hope would ever again have shone before him.  He must have gone plodding the very mire of existence—­Daniel’s brother, never again anything but Daniel’s brother.

Would Dr. Derwent give him a thought of thanks?  Would Irene hear how these letters were recovered?

Sunday passed, he knew not well how.  He wrote a letter to Olga, but destroyed it.  On Monday he was very busy, chiefly at the warehouses of the Commercial Docks; a man of affairs; to look upon, not strikingly different from many another with whom he rubbed shoulders in Fenchurch Street and elsewhere.  On Tuesday he had to go to Liverpool, to see an acquaintance of Moncharmont who might perchance be useful to them.  The journey, the change, were not unpleasant.  He passed the early evening with the man in question, who asked him at what hotel he meant to sleep.  Piers named the house he had carelessly chosen, adding that he had not been there yet; his bag was still at the station.

“Don’t go there,” said his companion.  “It’s small and uncomfortable and dear.  You’ll do much better at——­”

Without giving a thought to the matter, Otway accepted this advice.  He went to the station, withdrew his bag, and bade a cabman drive him to the hotel his acquaintance had named.  But no sooner had the cab started than he felt an unaccountable misgiving, an uneasiness as to this change of purpose.  Strange as he was to Liverpool, there seemed no reason why he should hesitate so about his hotel; yet the mental disturbance became so strong that, when all but arrived, he stopped the cab and bade his driver take him to the other house, that which he had originally chosen.  A downright piece of superstition, he said to himself, with a nervous laugh.  He could not remember to have ever behaved so capriciously.

The hotel pleased him.  After inspecting his bedroom, he came down again to smoke and glance over the newspapers; it was about half-past nine.  Half a dozen men were in the smoking-room; by ten o’clock there remained, exclusive of Piers, only three, of whom two were discussing politics by the fireside, whilst the third sat apart from them in a deep chair, reading a book.  The political talk began to interest Otway; he listened, behind his newspaper.  The louder of the disputants was a man of about fifty, dressed like a prosperous merchant; his cheeks were flabby, his chin triple or quadruple, his short neck, always very red, grew crimson as he excited himself.  He was talking about the development of markets for British wares, and kept repeating the phrase “trade outlets,” as if it had a flavour which he enjoyed.  England, he declared, was falling behind in the competition for the world’s trade.