CHAPTER XIII.
THE DISCOVERY.
Roger Acton had not slept well; had not slept at all till nearly break of day, except in the feverish fashion of half dream half revery.

There were thick-coming fancies all night long about what Ben had said and done: and more than once Roger had thought of the expediency of getting up, to seek without delay the realization of that one idea which now possessed him--a crock of gold.

When he put together one thing and another, he considered it almost certain that Ben had flung away among the lot no mere honey-pot, but perhaps indeed a money-pot: Burke hadn't half the cunning of a child; more fool he, and maybe so much the better for me, thought money-bitten, selfish Roger.
Thus, in the night's hot imaginations, he resolved to find the spoil; to will, was then to do: to do, was then to conquer.

However, Nature's sweet restorer came at last, and, when he woke, the idea had sobered down--last night's fancies were preposterous.

So, it was with a heavy heart he got up later than his wont--no work before him, nothing to do till the afternoon, when he might see Sir John, except it be to dig a bit in his little marshy garden.