An enormous surprise shone out on the faces of these people as Spence walked up to him.
"Mr. Spence!" said the Consul, "we never expected you or heard of your coming. This is most fortunate, however. You were his great friend. I think you both shared chambers together in London?"
Spence looked at him in wonder, mechanically shaking the proffered hand.
"I don't think I quite understand," he said. "I came here quite by chance, just to see if there was any one that I knew about."
"Then you have not heard—" said the clergyman.
"I have heard nothing."
"Your friend, our distinguished fellow-worker, Professor Hands, is no more. We have just received a cable. Poor, dear Hands died of heart disease while taking a seaside holiday."
Spence was genuinely affected.
Hands was an old and dear friend. His sweet, kindly nature, too dreamy and retiring perhaps for the rush and hurry of Occidental life, had always been wonderfully welcome for a month or two each year in Lincoln's Inn. His quaint, learned letters, his enthusiasm for his work had become part of the journalist's life. They were recurring pleasures. And now he was gone!
Now it was all over. Never more would he hear the quiet voice, hear the water-pipe bubble in the quiet old inn as night gave way to dawn....