The stranger was an active little man, older than Hartledon; his features were thin, his eyes dark and luminous. I think you have heard his name—Thomas Carr. Lord Hartledon once called him the greatest friend he possessed on earth. He had been wont to fly to him in his past dilemmas, and the habit was strong upon him still. A mandate that would have been peremptory, but for the beseeching terms in which it was couched, had reached Mr. Carr on circuit; and he had hastened across country to obey it, reaching Hartledon the previous evening. That something was wrong, Mr. Carr of course was aware; but what, he did not yet know. Lord Hartledon, with his natural vacillation, his usual shrinking from the discussion of unpleasant topics relating to himself, had not entered upon it at all on the previous night; and when breakfast was over that morning, Mr. Carr had craved an hour alone for letter-writing. It was the first time Mr. Carr had visited his friend at his new inheritance; indeed the first time he had been at all at Hartledon. Lord Hartledon seated himself on the gate; the barrister leaned his arms on the top bar whilst he talked to him.
"What is the matter?" asked the latter.
"Not much."
"I have finished my letters, so I came out to look for you. You are not changed, Elster."
"What should change me in so short a time?—it's only six months since you last saw me," retorted Hartledon, curtly.
"I alluded to your nature. I had to worm the troubles out of you in the old days, each one as it arose. I see I shall have to do the same now. Don't say there's not much the matter, for I am sure there is."
Lord Hartledon jerked his handkerchief out of his pocket, passed it over his face, and put it back again.
"What fresh folly have you got into?—as I used to ask you at Oxford. You are in some mess."
"I suppose it's of no use denying that I am in one. An awful mess, too."
"Well, I have pulled you out of many a one in my time. Let me hear it."