“Who are you? What do you want?” cried Northcote, with a thrill in his voice.
The young man rose to his feet to summon the commoner faculties. For a voice to have invaded his garret at this hour and in this fashion seemed to presage a new epoch to his life.
“Who are you?” he demanded again, having received no reply to the former demand.
“Nobody much,” said the voice, which sounded unlike anything he had ever heard before.
“I’ll strike a match before I get a blow from a bludgeon.”
“Pray do so,” said the voice, quietly.
Northcote began to fumble for the matches and found them on the mantelpiece. He obtained a light and applied it to the wick of the lamp which was on the table, and was then able to read his visitor.
The flicker of the lamp declared him to be a man of forty, of pale and attenuated figure, clad in rags.
“To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?” said Northcote, with slightly overemphasized politeness.
“Curiosity, curiosity,” muttered his visitor, with the quietness of one who is acquainted with its value.