A tall, stiff military figure literally marched into the middle of the office, and there stood like a sentinel.
Mr. Bartley could hardly believe his senses.
"Colonel Clifford!" said he, roughly.
"You are surprised to see me here?"
"Of course I am. May I ask what brings you?"
"That which composes all quarrels and squares all accounts—Death."
Colonel Clifford said this solemnly, and with less asperity. He added, with a glance at Monckton, "This is a very private matter."
Bartley took the hint, and asked Monckton to retire into the inner office.
As soon as he and Colonel Clifford were alone, that warrior, still standing straight as a dart, delivered himself of certain short sentences, each of which seemed to be propelled, or indeed jerked out of him, by some foreign power seated in his breast.
"My sister, your injured wife, is no more."