A LODGER IN MAZE POND
Harvey Munden had settled himself in a corner of the club smoking-room, with a cigar and a review. At eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in August he might reasonably expect to be undisturbed. But behold, there entered a bore, a long-faced man with a yellow waistcoat, much dreaded by all the members; he stood a while at one of the tables, fingering newspapers and eyeing the solitary. Harvey heard a step, looked up, and shuddered.
The bore began his attack in form; Harvey parried with as much resolution as his kindly nature permitted.
'You know that Dr. Shergold is dying?' fell casually from the imperturbable man.
'Dying?'
Munden was startled into attention, and the full flow of gossip swept about him. Yes, the great Dr. Shergold lay dying; there were bulletins in the morning papers; it seemed unlikely that he would see another dawn.
'Who will benefit by his decease?' inquired the bore. 'His nephew, do you think?'
'Very possibly.'
'A remarkable man, that—a most remarkable man. He was at Lady Teasdale's the other evening, and he talked a good deal. Upon my word, it reminded one of Coleridge, or Macaulay,—that kind of thing. Certainly most brilliant talk. I can't remember what it was all about—something literary. A sort of fantasia, don't you know. Wonderful eloquence. By the bye, I believe he is a great friend of yours?'
'Oh, we have known each other for a long time.'