“Not now,” replied Paul; “but I think of taking up the violin.”
Challoner’s eye, which had been somewhat restless since the trade of the detective had been named, now rested for a moment on the columns of the morning paper, where it lay spread upon the counter.
“By Jove,” he cried, “that’s odd!”
“What is odd?” asked Paul.
“Oh, nothing,” returned the other: “only I once met a person called M’Guire.”
“So did I!” cried Somerset. “Is there anything about him?”
Challoner read as follows: “Mysterious death in Stepney. An inquest was held yesterday on the body of Patrick M’Guire, described as a carpenter. Dr. Dovering stated that he had for some time treated the deceased as a dispensary patient, for sleeplessness, loss of appetite, and nervous depression. There was no cause of death to be found. He would say the deceased had sunk. Deceased was not a temperate man, which doubtless accelerated death. Deceased complained of dumb ague, but witness had never been able to detect any positive disease. He did not know that he had any family. He regarded him as a person of unsound intellect, who believed himself a member and the victim of some secret society. If he were to hazard an opinion, he would say deceased had died of fear.”
“And the doctor would be right,” cried Somerset; “and my dear Challoner, I am so relieved to hear of his demise, that I will——. Well, after all,” he added, “poor devil, he was well served.”
The door at this moment opened, and Desborough appeared upon the threshold. He was wrapped in a long waterproof, imperfectly supplied with buttons; his boots were full of water, his hat greasy with service; and yet he wore the air of one exceeding well content with life. He was hailed by the two others with exclamations of surprise and welcome.