Jabez closed the door, and taking up a stool sat down near to the man. The glimmering lamp overhead cast its flickering light over both of them. Outside the wind was howling, and shook the crazy window frames. As he looked at his companion, Jabez felt a sense of satisfaction in that he had despatched that note to Miriam—the man was so sinister looking. For a time there was silence between them. At last Farren spoke.
"What has become of our good hostess?" he asked. "I hunger for my pipe. Glorious comfort! What should we poor devils be without it? At least, we have always that—our Paradise if fleeting can be reached for the asking."
Jabez was taking no notice of what he said. He seemed indeed not to hear. His thoughts were concentrated upon himself and his probable fate at the hands of the man opposite to him, had it not been for the timely warning of his sister. At last he had to give voice to them.
"Look here, Mr.—Mr. Farren——"
He looked up quickly at the mention of his name.
"Who told you that?" he asked slowly.
"My sister, Miriam——"
"Miriam Crane, or I should say Mrs. Gerald Arkel? So she told you, did she? And how did she come to know?"
"Her friend, Mrs. Parsley, wife of the Vicar of Lesser Thorpe, saw you with me in West Kensington the other day."
"Mrs. Parsley!—how well I remember her. And so she remembered me? To her I owe my resurrection?—an energetic old lady, Mrs. Parsley, if I recollect rightly. Dear me, how long ago it all seems!"