Overcoat with a wriggle that seemed to him to last five weeks—it was, as a fact, a conjuror's trick for smartness—and it was on! The Devil saw to it that it fitted.
It was all right. He would pretend some mistake, and send it back the very first thing next morning; nay, he would be an honest man, and send it back at once by a messenger the moment he found out his mistake on getting to his lodgings. So wealthy an overcoat could only belong to a great man—a man who would stay late, very late. Come, the Green Overcoat would be back again in that house before its owner had elected to move. He would be no wiser! There was no harm done, and he could not walk as he was through the rain.
Alas! These plausible arguments proceeded, had the Professor but known it, from the Enemy of Souls! He, the fallen archangel, foresaw that coming ruin to which his lanky and introspective victim was unhappily blind. Dons are cheap meat for Devils.
The door shut upon the learned man. He went striding out into the drenching storm, down the drive towards the public road. And as he went he carried a sense of wealth about him that was very pleasurable in spite
