Wynter, too, was a scientist of no mean order, and would, probably, have made his mark in the world, if the world and its pleasures had not made their mark on him.

He had been young Curzon's coach at one time, and finding the lad a kindred spirit, had opened out to him his own large store of knowledge, and steeped him in that great sea of which no man yet has drank enough--for all begin, and leave it, athirst.
Poor Wynter! The professor, turning in his stride up and down the narrow, uncomfortable room, one of the many that lie off the Strand, finds his eyes resting on that other letter--carelessly opened, barely begun.
From Wynter's solicitor! It seems ridiculous that Wynter should have _had_ a solicitor.

With a sigh, he takes it up, opens it out and begins to read it.

At the end of the second page, he starts, re-reads a sentence or two, and suddenly his face becomes illuminated.

He throws up his head.