"What is the matter with Worth?" inquired one lawyer.
"Can't imagine; he looks very ill; shouldn't wonder if he was going to have a congestion of the brain. It looks like it. He works too hard," replied another.
Old Wiseman, the law-thunderer, who had been the counsel opposed to Ishmael in this last case, and who, in fact, was always professionally opposed to him, but, nevertheless, personally friendly towards him, had also noticed his pale, haggard, and distracted looks, and now hurried after him in the fear that he should fall before reaching home.
He overtook Ishmael in the lobby. The young man was standing leaning on the balustrade at the head of the stairs, as if unable to take another step.
Wiseman bent over him.
"Worth, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Does it half kill you to overthrow me at law?"
"I—fear that I am not well," replied Ishmael, in a hollow voice, and with a haggard smile.
"What is it? Only exhaustion, I hope? You have been working too hard, and you never even left the courtroom to take any refreshments to-day. You are too much in earnest, my young friend. You take too much pains. You apply yourself too closely. Why, bless my life, you could floor us all any day with half the trouble! But you must always use a trip-hammer to drive tin tacks. Take my arm, and let us go and get something."
And the stout lawyer drew the young man's arm within his own and led him to a restaurant that was kept on the same floor for the convenience of the courts and their officers and other habitues of the City Hall.
Wiseman called for the best old Otard brandy, and poured out half a tumblerful, and offered it to Ishmael. It was a dose that might have been swallowed with impunity by a seasoned old toper like Wiseman; but certainly not by an abstinent young man like Ishmael, who, yielding to the fatal impulse to get rid of present suffering by any means, at any cost, or any risk, took the tumbler and swallowed the brandy.