The person however who had thus unceremoniously opened the way to his entrance, seemed perfectly indifferent whether his proceedings were agreeable or otherwise. His first movement on entering the room was to shut the door after him and lock it; his next was to look about it to see whether it contained any other than the person of Jones. Having satisfied himself on that score, he walked rapidly up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.
Jones looked listlessly up at him, and then turning away, dabbled in the ashes, without uttering a word.
‘Hello! Bill Jones,’ said the stranger, after waiting a moment or two in evident surprise, ‘what ails you?’
The man made no reply.
‘Are you sulky?’ demanded the other; ‘Well, follow your own humor; but answer me one question: where’s Craig?’
Jones shuddered; and his hand shook violently. Rising up, half tottering, he turned and stood face to face with his visiter.
‘Good day to ye, Mr. Grosket,’ said he, with a ghastly smile, and extending his hand to him. ‘Good day to ye. It’s a bright day, on the heels of such a night as the last was.’
‘Good God! what ails you, man?’ exclaimed Grosket, recoiling before the wild figure which confronted him; and then taking his hand, he said: ‘Your hand is hot as fire, your eyes blood-shot, and your face covered with blood. What have you been at? What ails you?’
Jones passed his hand feebly across his forehead, and then replied: ‘I’m sick at heart!’
He turned from Grosket, and again crouched upon the hearth, mumbling over his last words, ‘Sick at heart! sick at heart!’—nor did he appear to recollect Grosket’s question respecting Craig. If he did, he did not answer it, but with his arms locked over his knees, he rocked to and fro, like one in great pain.