A little wicket in Anthony's mind would be thrown open at some such place as this, and the sentinel, posted there by old Rufus, would put out his head. "You are a true nephew to Charles," the sentinel would say. "You have a deal of the strain of blood that makes play of what should be serious man's work. You refused romances when Charles offered them. You said you'd rather read the books of the house. Very well, but how are you reading them? Are they any more than tale books, taken in the spirit in which you sit down to them? It was your hope, was it not, to come upon some cunning contrivance, or artful bit of knavery? But it will take an open mind for that, and a seeing eye; and neither of those are had by one who reads into a book things that are not there." "I was wrong," said Anthony. "I admit it. I was wrong." "The winter is an excellent time for a search like this," spoke the sentinel; "and the winter is passing. In the spring other things will take your attention. So work diligently now; give your mind to it, and put aside all else. The things you have been thinking are those a man finds who reads by moonlight." And then the wicket would close with an exasperated little snap; and Anthony would set himself squarely to his task, hunting, tracing, and examining. There was now no line of writing in any of the books that was so honest but it had to prove itself; there were no figures so obvious but they came under suspicion. As fast as he finished with the books he had, he brought more to his lodgings, and there was not a night but one of them was open on the table; his light burned steadily into the small hours while he read and made notes of those things which drew his attention. "A coffee-house or a playhouse would be far better entertainment for him," said Charles, in speaking of the matter to Captain Weir. "But when a young man is as set in disposition as Anthony, one may as well give him his way." Weir stood at a window with his back turned, and Charles did not see the ugly twist at his mouth or the narrowing of his cold eyes. But what he said was: "I would venture he's nearer right than wrong. A solid knowledge may be had by doing what he's elected to do." Whitaker smiled; also he shrugged in the new French way when Griggs spoke of Anthony's labors. "Of course, every man to his own way of doing things," said he. "But my own method is to look forward, not backward; and I've found it does very well." One night Anthony was drawing on his boots before the counting-room fire; Tom Horn was busy at his tall desk with his ledgers, a candle burning on either side of him. He suddenly paused in his labor and looked at Anthony. "I have noticed in bits of your writing," said he, "that your pen is not a skilled one." "No," confessed Anthony, readily. "I write very badly."