His passions were awakened; he had to compensate himself for years lost in suffering of body and mind.

With exultant swagger he walked about the London streets, often inspecting his appearance in a glass; for awhile he could throw aside all thought of the future, relish his freedom, take his licence in the way that most recommended itself to him.
The hours did not lag, and on the following afternoon he received the newspaper for which he was waiting.

He tore it open, and ran his eye over the columns, but they contained no extraordinary matter.

Nothing unexpected had befallen; there was an account of the nomination, and plenty of rancour against the Radicals, but assuredly, up to the hour of the _Mercury's_ going to press, no public scandal had exploded in Polterham.
What did it mean?
Was Marks delaying for some definite reason?
Or had he misrepresented his motives?
Was it a private enmity he had planned to gratify--now frustrated by the default of his instrument?
He had given Marks an address in Bristol, that of a shop at which letters were received.

Possibly some communication awaited him there.
He hastened to Paddington and took the first westward train.
On inquiry next morning, he found he had had his journey for nothing.
As he might have anticipated, Marks was too cautious a man to have recourse to writing.
There were still two days before the poll at Polterham.