It almost seemed as if it were the latter, for the office lights did gleam out into the black streets, and lighted up a patch of pavement.
A knock, low and unsteady, was rung upon the knocker.
Mr. Atkins hesitated. He was not a timid man, but he had no client who found it necessary to visit him at that hour, and his visitor, he thought, was as likely to be some desperate vagrant or professional thief as an honest man.
The knock, low and faint and imploring, sounded again. It seemed to the solicitor as if there was something especially guarded and secret in the manner of it.
He arose and took from his office desk a loaded pistol, and placed it in his breast pocket. Then he went to the door and undid the bars and bolts, throwing it half way open, and peering out.
A man stood upon the steps, muffled in a thick long overcoat, whose fur collar was turned up above his ears. A slouched hat was drawn over his face, and Mr. Atkins could not distinguish a feature of his face.
“Who is it?” asked the solicitor, his hand feeling for his pistol.
“An old friend,” was the reply, in a hoarse whisper. “I must see you. Let me in, Atkins.”
He stepped forward, with an air of command that impressed Atkins, who involuntarily stepped aside, giving the stranger admittance.
The new-comer quietly turned the key in the lock.