Waddington told him.
Burton sighed.
"It is awful to imagine that I should have needed it," he confessed.
"There must be some way out of this. You will trust me with these
sheets, Mr. Waddington? If my friend in the country can do nothing for
us, I will take them to the British Museum."
"By all means," Mr. Waddington replied. "Take care of them and bring
them back safely. I should like, if possible, to have a written
translation. It should indeed prove most interesting."
Burton went out with the musky-smelling sheets in his pocket. All the
temptations of the earlier part of the evening had completely passed
away. He walked slowly because a big yellow moon hung down from the
sky, and because Mr. Waddington's rooms were in a neighborhood of leafy
squares and picturesque houses. When he came back to the more travelled
ways he ceased, however, to look about him. He took a 'bus to
Westminster and returned to his rooms. Somehow or other, the possession
of the sheets acted like a sedative. He felt a new confidence in
himself. The absurdity of any return to his former state had never been
more established. The remainder of the night he spent in the same way
as many others. He drew his writing-table up to the open window, and
with the lights of the city and the river spread out before him, and the
faint wind blowing into the room, he worked at his novel.
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