His surprise was increased by an inability to recollect that Mallinson had ever considered literature as a means to his end.

Long sojourning in the wilderness, moreover, had given Drake an exaggerated reverence for the printed page.

He was inclined to set Mallinson on a pinnacle, and scourge himself at the foot of it for his earlier distrust of him.

He opened the book again at the beginning, and let the pages slip across beneath his thumb from cover to cover; 413 was marked on the top corner of the last; 413 pages actually written and printed and published; all consecutive too; something new on each page.
He turned to a porter.
'How long have I before the train starts ?' 'Five minutes, sir.' 'Where is the telegraph office ?' The office was pointed out to him, and he telegraphed to Mallinson at the address of his publishers.

'Have just reached England.