And then the event happened. Returning home to his rooms one night, about twelve o'clock, his man told him that Mr. Esmond was waiting for him in the sitting-room.
He found the little rotund man sitting in an easy-chair, white-faced, the marks of agitation written all over his countenance.
Wondering at this unusual spectacle—Tommy was frequently fussy, but always self-contained—Spencer advanced, and held out his hand.
"What's up, Tommy? You're a late visitor, but always welcome." He pointed to the decanters standing on the sideboard. "I hope you have helped yourself?"
To Spencer's great surprise, the little man did not take the proffered hand. He spoke in a hoarse, choking voice, his lips twitching.
"I've helped myself once too often, Spencer. And I can't take the hand of an honest man, for reasons. You've got it at once."
Spencer had average brains, but he was not very quick to realise the meaning of unexpected situations. At first, he thought the little man had been drinking.
"Sit down, Tommy, and get it off your chest. What in the name of wonder is the matter?" he said kindly. He was rather fond of Tommy in a casual sort of way.
Esmond did not sit down at once, but went over to the sideboard, and mixed himself a stiff tumbler of whisky-and-soda. He gulped it down at a draught, and then took an armchair.
"You won't begrudge me that, I know," he said, speaking in the same strained, hoarse voice. "It's the last drink I'll have in your rooms, the last drink in any house in England, I should say. I'm done for, old man, tomorrow I clear out, eat my heart away in some beastly foreign hole."