"Sir," answered Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head and sighing again, "on account of the lamentable affair of a month ago, the Bow Street Runners have assiduously chivvied me from pillar to post and from perch to perch, dammem! Had a notion to slip over to France, but the French will insist on talking their accursed French at one, so I've decided for America. But, though hounded by the law, I couldn't go without knowing precisely how you were—without bidding you good-by—without endeavoring to thank you—to thank you for poor Barry's sake and my own, and also to return—"
"Come in," said Barnabas, stretching out his hand, "pray come in—through the window if you can manage it."
In an instant Mr. Smivvle was astride the sill, but paused there to glance about him and twist a whisker in dubious fingers.
"Coast clear?" he inquired. "I've been hanging about the place for a week hoping to see you, but by Gad, Beverley, you're so surrounded by watchful angels—especially one in an Indian shawl, that I didn't dare disturb you, but—"
"Pooh, nonsense—come in, man!" said Barnabas. "Come in, I want your help—"
"My help, Oh Gemini!" and, with the word, Mr. Smivvle was in the room. "My help?" he repeated. "Oh Jupiter—only say the word, my dear fellow."
"Why, then, I want you to aid me to dress."
"Dress? Eh, what, Beverley—get up, is it?"
"Yes. Pray get me my clothes—in the press yonder, I fancy."
"Certainly, my dear fellow, but are you strong enough?" inquired
Mr. Smivvle, coming to the press on tip-toe.