The doctor unlocked a door, entered a room, and turned up the gas.
The gipsy now found himself in a very comfortable apartment fitted up like a surgery. There was a book-case, surmounted by the usual skull—there was the inevitable skeleton grinning in a corner—there were anatomical pictures, a case of surgical instruments, shelves of bottles and phials, nice sofas, a crimson carpet, and a highly-polished stove, in which a cheerful fire blazed.
“Sit down, my man,” said the doctor, with an air of superiority and condescension.
The gipsy thanked his host, and seated himself.
“Now in the first place I must get you something to eat and drink,” said the doctor. “By my faith, but you look like a starved cat, and yet now I glance at your face it seems familiar to me.”
“Does it? We have never met before, not to my knowledge.”
“No, no, of course not—I know that. Our spheres of life are widely different, I hope; but what the devil ever brought you so low as to set you prowling about the streets at night, dressed in rags, and threatening to brain people with a bludgeon?”
“The story of my life is hardly worth the telling,” returned Bill.
“Well, I should suppose not, but I suppose your downfall is partly owing to drink.”
“Partly,” observed the gipsy.