Then he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches underneath the eyes, and shook his head.

'You were going to steal my things,--mine, mine, mine!--you, who don't know when you may die.
Write a note to your office,--you say you're the head of it,--and order them to give Torpenhow my sketches,--every one of them.

Wait a minute: your hand's shaking.

Now!' He thrust a pocket-book before him.

The note was written.