Unaware of the presence of a visitor, he did not glance up from his book for a few seconds, but when his eyes suddenly fell upon the gaunt, ragged figure before him, he was speechless with amazement.
“Good God!—Hugh!” he cried, springing to his feet, and making a movement as if to grasp his friend’s hand.
But his visitor calmly put his hand behind his back, and, in a deep, earnest tone, he replied coldly—
“Yes, Jack. Before we shake hands, however, I have some questions to put to you.”
“Questions!” exclaimed the artist. “Why, what’s the matter?” Then, noticing the state of his clothing, he added. “You were reported dead. Where have you been; what’s the reason of your long silence?”
“I’ve been in prison.”
“In prison!”
The other nodded an affirmative, and briefly described how he had been arrested and transported, and the manner in which he had effected his escape.
The artist listened in dumb amazement.
“But what was your crime?” he asked, when Hugh had concluded his narrative. “Surely there must have been some very serious mistake.”