Perhaps in the future, when his poor mother should have passed to her eternal home, and he should give himself up to justice, “to be dealt with according to law,” and the whole story of his life’s deep tragedy should come out, Roma might judge him leniently. But how was that poor mother, even now? How had she borne the suspense and anxiety of his mysterious silence? Did she perhaps think that he had gone abroad with his rich wife, and totally forgotten his poor mother? Or had she in some way learned the truth? He felt that he could not write at this late date; he must go and see his mother, and find out her condition for himself. He had saved a little money from his wages. He arose and went to his trunk to see how much that might be. He found the key hanging on the little nail in the dark corner of the cupboard, where he had been accustomed to keep it. Either Annie had never found it when she removed his goods from the room, or else she had replaced it, for there it hung. He took it down, unlocked his trunk, and found and counted his money. Nineteen dollars. Enough to repay Adler the sum advanced for his rent and to bear his expenses to Logwood. Besides, there was his trunk full of costly wearing apparel that he would never want again, and might sell for a considerable sum. He would sell everything except one suit of gentleman’s clothing and three changes of fine underclothing, which he would keep to wear when he should go to see his mother. His mind was now made up. He locked his trunk and threw himself on his bed again. After a while his neighbor brought him a large cup of tea, which he drank gratefully. “Now,” she said, taking away the empty cup, “I will bid you good-night; but if you should want anything, call me, and I will come to you.” And with these words she went away. Later Adler came up. Then Harcourt told him of his wish to go and see his aged mother. “I cannot wait to write and hear from her. I must fly to see her. I did intend to go to see her within a few days, when I was prevented by that accident that laid me up for nearly three months. I am her only son—her only child, indeed—and she is a widow. I must go and end her suspense,” Harcourt explained. “Yes, indeed, you must go,” Adler assented. Then Harcourt told his friend of his wish to dispose of his trunkful of clothing. And Adler mentioned the name of a second-hand dealer who would give him a fair price. “That is, as fair as ever they give. You know, whether it is a book or a coat that you want to sell second-hand, they will tell you that they will have to sell it at half price; and to make any profit they can only give you quarter price. I will go with you there to-morrow, at the noon recess.” Harcourt thanked him, and the appointment was made. Adler stayed with his friend until nine o’clock, and then left him, with the advice that he should go to bed. Harcourt followed his good counsel, and retired, but could not sleep.