crusading name, Mr. Montague, sat huddled upon his bed—a bed he made himself, or rather left unmade from week to week—and examined carefully upon his knee the fur, the cloth, the make of the gorgeous apparel.
He smiled, and as he smiled he sneered. For God had so made Mr. Montague that sneering and smiling were with him one thing.
There was value in that piece of cloth upon his knee, but it was of two kinds: value to anyone who would buy, more value, perhaps, to some owner that would recover. He considered either chance, and even as he considered them and sat staring at the expanse of Green Cloth an odd thing happened; not in the external world, nor within the walls of that room, but within the old man's mind. He thought suddenly of Death!
A tremor passed over the whole surface of his skin, downwards from his neck to his feet. He coughed and spat—clear of the Green Overcoat—upon the floor; and he cursed for a moment in a language that was not English. Then the thought passed as suddenly as it had come, and he was himself again, but the weaker for that moment. His hand trembled as he set it to do what every
