I became suddenly aware how deplorably muddy and dirty I was. Like a scolded child, I pulled off my hat, and stood there with bowed head, unable to say a word. I raised my head when I heard the other man speak to Fanshawe.
"Is this the fellow?"
It was a curiously hard voice, a cold metallic voice. I looked at the speaker, and saw a man a little over thirty years of age, with a strong, rather heavy face; I noticed that his dark hair grew low on his forehead, and rather forward at the temples. He was very well-dressed—so well-dressed, in fact, that his being in that place at all on friendly terms with the shabby Jervis Fanshawe seemed incongruous in itself.
"Yes, this is the fellow," said Fanshawe, taking me by the sleeve and drawing me forward. "You can speak to him yourself."
The man lounging at the table looked up at me contemptuously enough—studied me as he might have studied a dog he meant to buy if he approved of it.
"You've been in prison?" he said at last.
I bowed my head, and dropped my eyes. "A long time," I replied.
"And now are thrown on the world, with a living to get if possible, and with no trade at your fingers' ends—eh? Well, I may be able to help you. We are friends here, and so I can speak freely. You killed a man?"
"A long time ago," I said, without raising my eyes.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of," he retorted, with a disagreeable laugh—"in fact, you're a man to know. I've been talking to Fanshawe here about you, and I think you may serve my purpose."