I can hear in my room pretty much what passes in the adjoining one, where visitors first enter from the street. I had scarcely got comfortably seated, in a rare mood for poetry, giving the last touches to a poem, which, whatever might be the merits of Byron and Moore, I did not think altogether indifferent, when I heard the little old gentleman's voice inquiring for me.
"I must see him; I have important business," it said.
"He has gone out," replied Peter, in an undertone, in which I could detect the consciousness that he was uttering a bouncer.
"But I must see him," said the voice.
"The scoundrel!" muttered I.
"He is not in town, sir," said Peter.
"I will not detain him a single minute. It is of the greatest importance. He would be very sorry, very, should he miss me."
I held my breath—there was a pause—I gave myself up for lost—when Peter replied firmly,
"He is in Albany, sir. Went off at five o'clock this morning."
"Be back soon?"