Ah! I have it," he added, after a moment's deliberation; "he's there, I'll be sworn. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. On examining his pockets, he found about twenty guineas in gold, and some silver. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. " "Won't my life do as well as his?" supplicated the other.
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