A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the colonel and one of his wife’s trustees touching the investment of Mrs. Pompley’s fortune. It might be the trustee,—nay, it must be. The trustee had talked of running down to see him.
“Let him come in,” said the colonel, “and when I ring—sandwiches and sherry.”
“Beef, sir?”
“Ham.”
The colonel put aside his house-book, and wiped his pen. In another minute the door opened and the servant announced—
“MR. DIGBY.”
The colonel’s face fell, and he staggered back.
The door closed, and Mr. Digby stood in the middle of the room, leaning on the great writing-table for support. The poor soldier looked sicklier and shabbier, and nearer the end of all things in life and fortune, than when Lord L’Estrange had thrust the pocket-book into his hands. But still the servant showed knowledge of the world in calling him gentleman; there was no other word to apply to him.
“Sir,” began Colonel Pompley, recovering himself, and with great solemnity, “I did not expect this pleasure.”
The poor visitor stared round him dizzily, and sank into a chair, breathing hard. The colonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor relation, and buttoned up first one trouser pocket and then the other.