Left to himself, Brown tried to go on with the manuscript; but was not able to do so. He was impatient for the coming of De Bac, and kept watching the hands of the clock as they slowly travelled towards twelve. When he came to the office in the morning Brown had looked with a nervous fear in the fireplace, half expecting to find the black paper still there; and it was a considerable relief to his mind to find it was not. He could do nothing, not even open the envelopes of the letters that lay on his table. He made an effort to find occupation in the morning's paper. It was full of some absurd correspondence on a trivial subject, and he wondered at the thousands of fools who could waste time in writing and in reading yards of print on the theme of "Whether women should wear neckties." The ticking of the clock irritated him. He flung the paper aside, just as the door opened and Simmonds came in. For a moment Brown thought he had come to announce De Bac's arrival; but no--Simmonds simply placed a square envelope on the table before Brown. "Pass-book from Bransom's, sir, just come in;" and he went out. Brown took it up mechanically, and opened the envelope. A type-written letter fell out with the passbook. He ran his eyes over it with astonishment. It was briefly to inform him that M. De Bac had paid into Brown's account yesterday afternoon the sum of five thousand pounds, and that, adjusting overdrafts, the balance at his credit was four thousand seven hundred and twenty pounds thirteen shillings and three pence. Brown rubbed his eyes. Then he hurriedly glanced at the pass-book. The figures tallied--there was no error, no mistake. He pricked himself with his penknife to see if he was awake, and finally shouted to Simmonds: "Read this letter aloud to me, Simmonds," he said. Simmonds' eyes opened, but he did as he was bidden, and there was no mistake about the account. "Anything else, sir?" asked Simmonds when he had finished. "No--nothing," and Brown was once more alone. He sat staring at the figures before him in silence, almost mesmerizing himself with the intentness of his gaze. "My God!" he burst out at last, in absolute wonder. "Who is your God, Brown?" answered a deep voice. "I--I--M. De Bac! How did you come?" "I did not drop down the chimney," said De Bac with a grin; "your clerk announced me in the ordinary way, but you were so absorbed you did not hear. So I took the liberty of sitting in this chair, and awaiting your return to earthly matters. You were dreaming, Brown--by the way, who is your God?" he repeated with a low laugh. "I--I do not understand, sir." "Possibly not, possibly not. I wouldn't bother about the matter. Ah! I see Bransom's have sent you your pass-book! Sit down, Brown. I hate to see a man fidgeting about--I paid in that amount yesterday on a second thought. It is enough--eh?"