“Return at once. Robber captured here. Keep down expenses.”
It would be hard to say which of these three important sentences struck me as the most cruel. I think the last.
I was standing in the street, staring blankly at the missive, when I was startled beyond measure by feeling a hand on my shoulder, and a voice pronouncing my name—
“Samuels!”
It was Michael McCrane. But not the Michael McCrane I knew in the City, or the one I had seen going below on board the steamer. He wore a frock-coat and light trousers, lavender gloves, and a hat—glorious product of that identical box—in which you might see your own face. A rose was in his button-hole, his hair was brushed, his collar was white, and his chin was absolutely smooth.
“Whatever are you doing here?” he asked.
“Oh,” faltered I, for I was fairly overcome, both by my own misfortunes and his magnificent appearance, “nothing; only a—a little business run, you know, for the manager.”
“I didn’t know we had any customers in these parts.”
“Well no. But, I say, what are you doing here?”
“Business too,” said he—“grave business. By the way, Samuels, have you got any better clothes than these?”