“Here’s a quiet little crib just hard by—my time’s my own, and I am quite at your service. Come this way, and I’ll show you where it is.”
“The ‘Blue Posts’ will do well enough,” returned Gatliffe.
“Too noisy and crowded. I’ll show you a better place. Come along.”
The two companions walked on until they came to a quiet, unostentatious-looking public-house.
They entered and Peace led the way to a small dingy parlour, which was tenantless. Gatliffe rang the bell and ordered some wine.
Glasses were filled, and they drank each other’s health.
By the flare of the gas-lights Peace had an opportunity offered him of taking a more steadfast and searching glance at his companion. He noted the alteration which time or sorrow had made in his appearance.
Tom Gatliffe was still handsome, but lines of care were distinctly visible on his well-formed features. The eyes had sunk deeper in their sockets, and there was a dark hue around them which Peace had never observed before.
He was not a very impressionable man, but he was much concerned at the evident change for the worse in the manner and appearance of the young engineer.
“You seem to be taken aback,” cried the latter. “You didn’t expect to meet me, and are surprised, I suppose.”