The candles were alight before the looking-glass over the mantelpiece. In front of it stood Sturtevant, with his back to Gobion. His thumbs were in the corners of his mouth, and with his first fingers he was pulling down the loose skin under his eyes, making the most ghastly grimaces at his image in the mirror.
Gobion stood still, petrified, and mechanically pressed the spring of his opera hat, which flew out with a loud pop. Sturtevant wheeled round like a shot, shaking with fear. When he saw who was there he gave a great sob of relief and fell into a chair.
"O God, how you startled me!" he said.
"What on earth's the matter with you?" said Gobion; "you look as if you were dying."
The man was not good to look at. His skin was a uniform tint of discoloured ivory, with red wrinkles round the eyes. His lips were dark purple and swollen, his hands shook.
"I'm so glad you've come; I've had a slight touch of D.T., and if you hadn't come in I should have broken out again to-night."
Gobion calmed him as well as he could, and in about an hour got him into something like ordinary condition.
"And now," he said, "how about our copy?"
"By George, I've forgotten all about it; there are probably a lot of letters in the box."