He came to an unsteady standstill, blinked at them all, and solemnly took off his hat.
“My God!” muttered Caroline Baddlesmere—“it’s Andrew Blotte!”
“Here’s poor Mr. Andrew Blotte,” said Julia in a frightened whisper to Noll.
“Hullo, Mr. Blotte!” cried Noll from his high perch—“we’ve just been talking about you.”
The drunken man sniggered:
“Talk of a nightmare—and you hear it hiccup!” said he.
But the effort at merriment upset his balance, and he made at a rolling gait for the desk, gripped at it to steady himself, and turning himself very carefully so as to avoid confusing his feet, he sat himself down against the edge of it.
His face became a bland smile.
His was a splendid head. From the square brow the strong hair sprang like a lion’s mane, and the fine massive head was set on the shoulders in a way that gave a sense of forcefulness in the man. But the once-handsome features were now heavy with drink, their beautiful form was being scarred deep with harsh lines, and the hint of beauty was only a haunting shadow of the thing that had once been. His chin and jowls were sprinkled with a grizzled growth of beard a couple of days old.
He waved his hand round the room, and brought it with a strong masterful grip upon the desk on which he leaned.