“I wrote it twice to your honor since I saw you, and left the letters here myself.”
“You don't think I break open letters in such handwriting as yours, do you? Why, man, my table is covered with them. Who is the old man you speak of?”
“Well, sir, that's more than I know yet; but I 'll be well acquainted with all about him before a week ends, for I knew him before and he puzzled me too.”
“What's his business with me?”
“He would not tell. Indeed, he's not much given to talk. He just says, 'Is Colonel Sewell here?' and when I answer, 'No, sir,' he goes on, 'Can you tell the day or the hour when I may find him here?' Of course I say that your honor might come at any moment,—that your time is uncertain, and such-like,—that you 're greatly occupied with the Chief Baron.”
“What is he like? Is he a gentleman?”
“I think he is,—at least he was once; for though his clothes is not new and his boots are patched, there's a look about him that common people never have.”
“Is he short or tall? What is he like?” Just as Sewell had put this question they had gained the door of the little sitting-room, which lay wide open, admitting a full view of the interior. “Give me some notion of his appearance, if you can.”
“There he is, then,” cried O'Reardon, pointing to the chalk head over the chimney. “That's himself, and as like as life.”
“What? that!” exclaimed Sewell, clutching the man's arm, and actually shaking him in his eagerness. “Do you mean that he is the same man you see here?”