But in that sleep _I forgot the essential idea upon which the whole thing rested_. It went from me as utterly as if it had been wiped out. In vain I prodded my memory and called upon all the powers of earth and air to assist me in my dreadful dilemma. I no more knew where to place the lines I had for years seen clearly before me than if I had never conceived the thing or seen it a completed object in my mind’s eye. Success had dampened my wits, or in the long struggle with my second passion I had lost my hold upon the first. The money necessary to elucidate the idea was mine, but I had lost the idea! The situation was maddening. Fearing the results of this unexpected disappointment upon my already weakened self-control, I fled to my partner, who was a good fellow in the main, and begged him to take and keep for a week my leather bag with its valuable contents, adding that he was not to give it back to me till the seven days were up, even if I entreated him for it on my knees. He promised, and greatly relieved I left him for a stroll through the streets. You see I hoped to regain my idea before the week was out. But alas for the weakness of human nature! Instead of keeping my mind upon work, I spent my time in gorgeous rooms hung with mirrors in which was reflected every lovely thing I worshipped. I heard music, and—but why enlarge the vista further? Not having any goal for my energy, I fell, and when I got my money back, I lived another five years of boundless luxury. When the last dollar went, I fell sick. I was in New York now, calling myself Harold Deane, and I boarded in a humble boarding-house in Varick street where there was one kind woman who looked after me without asking whether I had any money to pay for my keep. I sent fifty dollars to that woman out of the first money you gave me, my dear. Pardon the digression. I merely wished to show you that I am not without gratitude. When I recovered from my delirium and lifted up my head again in this wicked, fascinating world, my mind was clear as a bell and I saw, all in a minute, the machine again, line for line, whose action was to transform trade and make me a millionaire. Though I was too weak to sit up, I called out for pencil and paper, and at the risk of being thought crazy, scrawled a rude outline of the thing I had lost so long from my consciousness and which I held now by such uncertain tenure that I feared to lose it again, if I let the moment go by. This I put under my pillow. But when I awoke from the sleep which followed, the drawing was gone, destroyed by the good woman who thought it the mad scrawling of a delirious man. But this loss did not trouble me at this time, for the image remained clear in my mind and I was no longer afraid of losing it.