IN WHICH THERE IS A MADMAN.
Mr. Flint sips vino d'oro—The Stranger—The Letter—Mr. Flint Outwitted—Mr. Flint's Photograph—The Madman's Story—The wrecked Soul—How Mr. Flint is troubled by his Conscience, and dreams of a Pair of Eyes.
The same night on which Mortimer was writing in the books of Flint & Snarle, Mr. Flint sat in the library of his bachelor home, sipping a glass of vino d'oro; and as the bells of Trinity Church fell faintly on his ear, he drew a massive gold watch from his fob, and, patting it complacently on the back, scrutinized its face as if he would look it out of countenance. Then he yawned a couple of times and thought of bed.
"There's a gintleman without, sur," said Michel, putting his comical head in at the library door, "there's a gintleman without, sur," and he emphasized the 'gintleman.'
"What sort of a person, Michel?"
"A very quare one indade. 'Is Mr. Flint in?' sez he. 'He is sur,' sez I. 'I want to see him,' sez he. 'Your kard, sur,' sez I. He stared at me a minit, and laughed. Then, sez he, without the least riverence for your worship, 'Give this to owld Flint!'" And Michel, exploding with laughter, handed Flint a knave of clubs very much soiled.
"Michel!" said Mr. Flint, drawing himself up to his full altitude, "kick him down the steps!"
"Thanks!" said a voice directly behind Michel, who had retreated to the doorway. The voice was so near and unexpected that Michel's crisp hair stood on end with fright.
The door was thrown wide open, and a fine looking man, with the bearing of a sailor, stood between them. Mr. Flint turned as white as his immaculate shirt-bosom; and Michel, whose love of fun had got the better of his scare, regarded the intruder with a quizzical, inquiring air, peculiarly Irish.
"Michel," said Mr. Flint, "you may go."