He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. Morningside Park was a suburb that had not altogether, as people say, come off. He was caked with dried muck. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. Sc. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done.
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