“Well, well,” he said to himself at last, “this won’t do!” And rising abruptly from his chair, he gave the waiter, who, in his preoccupation had been to him a mere white blur above a black coat, an extravagant tip⁠—half-a-crown, in fact⁠—and, taking up his hat and stick, told them to put down his meal to Mr. Urquhart’s account, and stepped out into the street.

The cold, gusty wind, when he got outside, cleared his brain at once. He made up his mind that he would leave the bookseller to the last; and, stopping one of the passersby, he enquired the way to Weevil’s grocery.