“No. You can go, Miss Johnson.”
After she had gone, he rose and went to the window. The pavement far below was glistening, the lights were blurred. The rain blew in on him, cold and fine. He liked the feel of it. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.
“By Heaven, I won’t quit!” he said to himself. “I won’t give in! I won’t go home until I’ve got this thing straight in my mind, if I stay here all night!”
A great exultation seized him, a sense of power and energy. It was often like this. He would reach what would seem to be the very limit of his endurance, but if he held on, and would not rest, would not yield, this curious new vigor would come to him, this feeling of triumph, as if he had passed the boundary of normal endeavor and had become superhuman. He would pay for this later, in a long night of sleeplessness, but it was worth it.
He saw before him now, with perfect clarity, just the words he would use in his address. He drew back from the window, in a hurry to set them down, and as he turned he saw a tall figure standing near his desk. The shock made him dizzy for a moment.
“What—” he began furiously, and stopped, staring. “Oh, it’s you, is it, Charley?” he said.
“It’s me,” replied the other cheerfully. “Knocked at the outer door and nobody answered, so I walked in. Sorry I startled you.”
“Nerves, I suppose,” murmured Wickham Hackett. “I’m very tired. Sit down, man. I have something to tell you.”
But the other remained standing. He was a tall man, lean and sunburned, with a handsome, arrogant face and a swaggering air. He seemed like a man from another age, who should have worn a sword at his side. An adventurer, surely, but down on his luck now, with a frayed and threadbare overcoat, a shabby hat, and deep lines about his gray eyes.
“Sit down, man!” Wickham Hackett repeated impatiently. “Here, have a[Pg 546] smoke. I have some news for you, Charley.”