"James Tomlinson," continued the man, referring to a scrap of paper, which he took from his waistcoat pocket, "late banker in Lombard Street?"
"The same," said Tomlinson, impatiently.
"Then I took it down right, although he did speak in such a confused manner," observed the man, muttering rather to himself than to Mr. Tomlinson.
"What do you mean?" demanded the stock-broker.
"I mean that there's a person who wants to see you," answered the stranger. "I don't know that I'm exactly right in saying wants, because he is in such a state that he can neither want nor care about any thing. At the same time, I think it would be as well if you was to see him."
"Who is this person?" cried Tomlinson.
"A man that seems to know you well enough, if I can understand his ravings."
"Ravings!" repeated the stock-broker, already influenced by a slight misgiving.
"Ravings, indeed! and enough to make him rave! To be laid out as dead for four days, then put in a coffin, buried, and be had up again within ten or a dozen hours:—if that wouldn't make a man rave—what the devil would?"
"Have the goodness to explain yourself. Every word you utter is an enigma to me."