Some idea must have been started in Mr. Grey's mind, for his eyes lighted up with a gleam of exultation, and he muttered:
"The very thing. Why didn't I think of it before?"
Hugh Trimble shuffled into the room—a tall, shambling figure of a man, with a generally disreputable look. He was roughly dressed, and appeared like a social outlaw. He was a tenant of Mr. Grey's, living on a clearing just on the edge of a forest. He had a wife, but no children. She led a hard life, being subjected to ill usage from her husband when, as was frequently the case, he was under the influence of liquor.
Such was the man who entered the library, and evidently ill at ease on finding himself in a room so unfitted to his habits, made a clumsy salutation.
"Well, Trimble," said Mr. Grey, with unusual cordiality, "how are you getting on?"
"Bad enough," returned Trimble, "I haven't got no money for you."
"Have you been unlucky?"
"I'm always unlucky," growled Trimble, frowning. "I was born to bad luck, I was."
"Perhaps your bad luck will leave you, after a time."
"I don't see no signs of that."