Dick stuffed into the stove every
document in the studio--saving only three unopened letters; destroyed sketch-
books, rough note-books, new and half-finished canvases alike.
"What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about him if he stays long enough in one
place, to be sure," said Mr. Beeton, at last.
"He does. Is there anything more left?" Dick felt round the walls.
"Not a thing, and the stove's nigh red-hot."
"Excellent, and you've lost about a thousand pounds' worth of sketches. Ho! ho!
Quite a thousand pounds' worth, if I can remember what I used to be."
"Yes, sir," politely. Mr. Beeton was quite sure that Dick had gone mad,
otherwise he would have never parted with his excellent furniture for a song.
The canvas things took up storage room and were much better out of the way.
There remained only to leave the little will in safe hands: that could not be
accomplished til tomorrow. Dick groped about the floor picking up the last
pieces of paper, assured himself again and again that there remained no written
word or sign of his past life in drawer or desk, and sat down before the stove
till the fire died out and the contracting iron cracked in the silence of the
night.
CHAPTER XV
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander;
With a burning spear and a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.
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