"What a pleasant sort of man you seem to be!"
"I am that for certain sure."
"What would you say to a five-pound note?"
"Thank you; I've got one or two of them already. Took 'em out of your pocket, as you didn't seem to have no use for them yourself."
While Paxton was endeavouring, seemingly, to grasp the full meaning of this agreeable piece of information, a door at the further end of the room was opened and some one else came in. Paxton turned his head to see who it was. It was with a sense of shock, and yet, with a consciousness that it was, after all, what he might have expected, that he perceived that the newcomer was the ill-favoured associate of Mr. Lawrence, towards whom he had felt at first sight so strong an aversion. He was attired precisely as he had been when Paxton had seen him last--in the long, loose, black overcoat and the amazingly high tall hat. As he stood peering across the room, he looked like some grotesque familiar spirit come straight from shadowland.
"Well, my Skittles, and is our good friend still alive--eh?"
The man with the pail thus addressed as Skittles grinned at Paxton as he answered.
"The blokey's all right. Him and me's been having a little friendly talk together."
"Is that so? I hope, my Skittles, you have been giving Mr. Paxton a little good advice?"
The man with the curious foreign accent came, and, standing by Cyril's side, glowered down on him like some uncanny creature of evil origin.