“Who's 'I'?” I asked.
“Farwell Knowles,” said the voice. “Let me in!”
I started, and looked down.
He was standing on the steps where the light of a street-lamp fell on him, and I saw even by the poor glimmer that something was wrong; he was white as a dead man. There was something wild in his attitude; he had no hat, and looked all mixed-up and disarranged.
“Come down—come down!” he begged thickly, beckoning me with his arm.
I got on some clothes, slipped downstairs without wakening my wife, lit the hall light, and took him into the library. He dropped in a chair with a quick breath like a sob, and when I turned from lighting the gas I was shocked by the change in him since afternoon. I never saw such a look before. It was like a rat you've seen running along the gutter side of the curbstone with a terrier after it.
“What's the matter, Farwell?” I asked.
“Oh, my God!” he whispered.
“What's happened?”
“It's hard to tell you,” said he. “Oh, but it's hard to tell.”