"As for me," said Edwards, carelessly, "now that I have left the Museum I don't care where I may have to go."
At this moment a note was brought in by the old German, and handed to Edwards. He glanced at the straggling, almost illegible, address in pencil on the dirty envelope.
"Well, this is too bad," he said, impatiently.
"What is it?"
"That fellow Kirski. He is off again. I can see by his writing. He never was very good at it; but this is the handwriting of delirium tremens."
He opened the letter, and glanced at the first page.
"Oh yes," he said, in disgust, "he's off again, clearly."
"What does he say?"
"The usual rigmarole—only not quite so legible. The
beautiful angel who was so kind to him—he has taken her portrait from its hiding-place—it is sacred now—no more public house—well, it looks rather as if he had been to several."