He could think of nothing else, could talk of nothing else; every faculty of his brain, every sense of observation or imagination incessantly concentrated themselves upon this one point.
As they sat in the bay window watching the moon rise, his mind was still busy with it, and he suddenly broke out: "I ought to work some kind of a TREASURE into the yarn.

What's a story of adventure without a treasure?
By Jove, Blix, I wish I could give my whole time to this stuff! It's ripping good material, and it ought to be handled as carefully as glass.

Ought to be worked up, you know." "Condy," said Blix, looking at him intently, "what is it stands in your way of leaving the 'Times'?
Would they take you back if you left them long enough to write your novel?
You could write it in a month, couldn't you, if you had nothing else to do?
Suppose you left them for a month--would they hold your place for you ?" "Yes--yes, I think they would; but in the meanwhile, Blix--there's the rub.

I've never saved a cent out of my salary.

When I stop, my pay stops, and wherewithal would I be fed?
What are you looking for in that drawer--matches?
Here, I've got a match." Blix faced about at the sideboard, shutting the drawer by leaning against it.