"Take him into the basement, and tell him I'll be down soon."
Mr. Belcher exhausted his cigar, tossed the stump into the fire, and, muttering to himself, "Who the devil!" went down to meet his caller.
As he entered a sort of lobby in the basement that was used as a servants' parlor, his visitor rose, and stood with great shame-facedness before him. He did not extend his hand, but stood still, in his seedy clothes and his coat buttoned to his chin, to hide his lack of a shirt. The blue look of the cold street had changed to a hot purple under the influence of a softer atmosphere; and over all stood the wreck of a good face, and a head still grand in its outline.
"Well, you look as if you were waiting to be damned," said Mr. Belcher, roughly.
"I am, sir," responded the man solemnly.
"Very well; consider the business done, so far as I am concerned, and clear out."
"I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher."
"I believe you; and you'll excuse me if I say that your appearance corroborates your statement."
"And you don't recognize me? Is it possible?" And the maudlin tears came into the man's rheumy eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "You knew me in better days, sir;" and his voice trembled with weak emotion.
"No; I never saw you before. That game won't work, and now be off."