His fertile
mind played about it, strengthening it, building it up, polishing and
perfecting; and in time he began to write, at first slowly, but soon
with fluent ease.
XXVI
_In which Queed forces the Old Professor's Hand, and the Old
Professor takes to his Bed._
Raincoat buttoned to his throat, Queed set his face against the steady
downpour. It was a mild, windless night near the end of February,
foreshadowing the early spring already nearly due. He had no umbrella,
or wish for one: the cool rain in his face was a refreshment and a
vivifier.
So the worst had come to the worst, and he had been living for nearly a
year on Sharlee Weyland's money, stolen from her by her father's false
friend. Wormwood and gall were the fruits that altruism had borne him.
Two casual questions had brought out the shameful truth, and these
questions could have been asked as easily a year ago as now.
Bitterly did the young man reproach himself now, for his criminal
carelessness in regard to the sources of Surface's luxurious income. For
the better part of a year he had known the old man for an ex-convict
whose embezzlings had run high into six figures.
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