"No. I'm afraid we shall never see him alive again," I groaned.
"Dear me! Not so bad as that, I hope, sir," he responded sympathetically, as he still lingered.
"Not half so bad as that, Wilson," remarked a cheery voice just outside the door.
My man started, and I jumped to my feet with a shout of welcome.
"Forrest! Forrest!" I cried. "Come along in, man."
"Well, if I may?" replied Forrest's voice.
"If you may!" I answered. "Why—what the——!"
My astonishment at the appearance he presented as he entered the room choked my further utterance.
The man who entered was a veritable scarecrow. A man with a torn coat and rent trowsers, and a battered hat which barely held together upon his head. He was covered from head to foot with mud. His face was dirty, unshaven, disreputable.
"Forrest? Is it indeed you?" I could not but ask, when my speech returned to me.