When he was
asked in a private interview, by the Head of his College, to say where he
went after leaving Blocksby's Allen refused to answer. He merely said
that he could not prove the facts; that his own word would not be taken
against that of so many unprejudiced and even friendly witnesses. He
simply threw up the game. He resigned his fellowship; he took his name
off the books; he disappeared.
There was a good deal of talk; people spoke about the unscrupulousness of
collectors, and repeated old anecdotes on that subject. Then the
business was forgotten. Next, in a year's time or so, the book--the
confounded Longepierre's Theocritus--was found in a pawnbroker's shop.
The history of its adventures was traced beyond a shadow of doubt. It
had been very adroitly stolen, and disposed of, by a notorious
book-thief, a gentleman by birth--now dead, but well remembered. Ask Mr.
Quaritch!
Allen's absolute innocence was thus demonstrated beyond cavil, though
nobody paid any particular attention to the demonstration. As for Allen,
he had vanished; he was heard of no more.
He was _here_; dying here, beside the black wave of lone Loch Nan.
All this, so long in the telling, I had time enough to think over, as I
sat and watched him, and wiped his lips with water from the burn, clearer
and sweeter than the water of the loch.
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