As he entered the vestibule of the hotel, he saw Dick Swinton—or someone like him—wrapped in a long, ill-fitting coat, walking up and down very slowly. The young man caught sight of the ruddy face of Colonel Dundas, and he tried to hurry, but 210 his step was slow and uncertain. As they came near each other, he seized the colonel’s arm.
“Colonel! Colonel!” he cried. “How glad I am to see you! Is Dora with you?”
“Dora—no, sir! What do you take me for? Good God! what a wreck you are! Where have you been? How is it you’ve come home?”
“I—I thought she would come!” gasped Dick, who looked very white. His eyes were unnaturally large, and his cheeks sunken, and his hands merely bones.
“Here, come out of the crowd,” said the colonel, forgetting his tremendous speeches. He seized the young man by the arm, but gripped nothing like muscle. “Why, you’re a skeleton, boy!” he exclaimed, adopting the old attitude in spite of himself.
“Yes, I’m not up to the mark,” laughed Dick. “I thought you knew all about it.”
“Knew all about it, man? You’re dead—dead! Everyone, your father and mother and all of us, read the full story of your death in the papers.”
“Yes; but I corrected all that,” cried Dick, “My letters—they got my letters?”
“What letters?”
“The two I sent through by the men that were exchanged. Young Maxwell took one.”