“Mary’s my landlady,” I said. “But this is a surprise.”
“Ah! Yes,” he said; “I’ve often thought I’d come up and see Jabez, and look you up same time. I had a bit of a job to find you, for Jabez wasn’t at home.”
“Mr Jabez is here,” I said.
“Yes; they said he’d come to see you, and they wouldn’t give me the address at first. I’d lost it, or forgotten it, but here I am.”
“I’ll go up and tell him you are here,” I cried; and before my visitor could say a word, I had run upstairs and completely upset all Mr Jabez Rowle’s calculations, which might or might not have ended in his gaining the odd trick, and was soon taking him downstairs on the plea or important business.
“Anything the matter, Grace?” he said—“anything wrong with Hallett?”
“No,” I said; “he’s in his bedroom. Come in here.”
If I had expected to startle or surprise Mr Jabez, I should have been disappointed, for, upon entering my room, where his brother was composedly smoking the long clay pipe, with his yellow silk handkerchief spread over his knees, he only said:
“Hallo, Peter, you here?” and went and sat down on the other side of the fire.
“How do, Jabez?” said my old friend, without taking his pipe out of his mouth; and then there was silence, which I did not care to break, but sat down, too, and looked on.