"But I'm not off to paint the town red," says John, believing the other thinks it is his intention to see the sights of Malta's capital by night—"I have an engagement."
"In the Strada Mezzodi; eh?"
"Thunder; how did you guess it?" ejaculates the man of medicine, astonished beyond measure.
"I am not a guesser. I know what I know, and a dused sight more than some people think, especially my beloved wife, Gwendolin."
"What do you know—come to the point?"
"First, all about your past, and the trouble in the Craig family."
"Confusion! and you never told me you had ever heard of me before? This explains the manner in which you seemed to study me at times on the steamer," reproachfully.
"Just so. I had reasons for my silence; she was one of them," jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the parlor above, whence the voice of the amiable Gwendolin Makepeace floats to their ears.
"In haste, then, let me tell you a secret, John. I was not always what you see me, a docile, hen-pecked man. Twenty-five years ago Philander Sharpe, young, good-looking, conceited, and rich, had the world before him."
"Cut it short, I beg, professor," groans John, impatient to be off.