"Jack," said I, after a long and solemn silence, in which I had tried in vain to conjecture what might possibly be the cause of this—"Jack, dear boy, you and I have had confidences together, a little out of the ordinary line. I came here to congratulate you about your fortune; but I find you utterly cut up about something. Will you let me ask you what it is? I don't ask out of idle curiosity, but out of sympathy. At the same time, if it's any thing of a private nature, I beg pardon for asking you to tell it."
Jack looked up, and a faint flicker of a smile passed over his face.
"Oh, all right, old boy!" he said. "I'm hit hard—all up—and that sort of thing—hit hard—yes, damned hard—serves me right, too, you know, for being such an infernal fool."
He frowned, and drew a long breath.
"Wait a minute, old chap," said he, rising from the sofa; "I'll get something to sustain nature, and then I'll answer your question. I'm glad you've come. I don't know but that it'll do me good to tell it all to somebody. It's hard to stay here in my den, fretting my heart out —damned hard!—but wait a minute, and I'll explain."
Saying this, he walked over to the sideboard.
"Will you take any thing?"
"Thanks, no," said I; "a pipe is all I want." And I proceeded to fill and light one.
Thereupon Jack poured out a tumbler of raw brandy, which he swallowed.
Then he came back to the sofa. A flush came to his face, and his eyes looked brighter; but he had still the same haggard aspect.