But this trick of moralizing, caught from you, shall not be indulged. There is only time for the relation of bare facts.
The train brought me to the opposite shore of our river, not half a mile's walk from Mr. Charteris's lodgings. They seemed “handsome lodgings” as he said—a tall new house, one of the many which, only half-built, or half-inhabited, make this Birkenhead such a dreary place. But it is improving, year by year—I sometimes think it may be quite a busy and cheerful spot by the time I take a house here, as I intend. You will like a hill-top, and a view of the sea.
I asked for Mr. Charteris, and stumbled up the half-lighted stairs, into the wholly dark drawing-room.
“Who the devil's there?”
He was in hiding, you must remember, as indeed I ought to have done, and so taken the precaution first to send up my name—but I was afraid of non-admittance.
When the gas was lit, his pale, unshaven, sallow countenance, his state of apparent illness and weakness, made me cease to regret having gained entrance, under any circumstances. Recognizing me, he muttered some apology.
“I was asleep—I usually do sleep after dinner.” Then recovering his confused faculties, he asked with some hauteur, “To what may I attribute the pleasure of seeing Doctor Urquhart? Are you, like myself, a mere bird of passage, or a resident in Liverpool?”
“I am surgeon of ————— gaol.
“Indeed, I was not aware. A good appointment I hope? And what gaol did you say?”
I named it again, and left the subject. If he chose to wrap himself in that thin cloak of deception, it was no business of mine to tear it off. Besides, one pities a ruined man's most petty pride.