Three months and a couple of weeks had passed away. It was now the 15th of October, 18–, and Tony Lomax once more sat in his chambers. He had been away for his holidays, and had just returned, brown and invigorated, and ready to grapple with and subdue that insatiable monster, “Breeks and Woolfer.” He was sitting with his legs stretched well under his table, his coat was off notwithstanding the chilliness of the weather, and his white shirt-sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He looked the picture of rude health and high animal spirits.
A feeble knock on the panel of his door. A loud and cheery “Come in” from Tony. The door opened, and Mr. White entered, glanced nervously round, and gliding up to Lomax, said in a whisper,—
“Are we alone?”
Lomax could hardly believe his eyes. The dapper little friend of his youth had grown prematurely old. His thin red hair was no longer neatly arranged. His weak eyes had a wild and nervous shifting. His hands moved convulsively. His lips were dry, and his throat—to judge from his voice—parched.
“What in heaven’s name—!” exclaimed Lomax, starting from his seat.
“Hush,” said the other, in extreme agitation, “don’t speak so loudly. They might hear you.”
“Who might hear me?”
“The human characters—from the life—don’t you know. I have plenty of backbone now—too much, Tony. It’s very awful!”
Lomax saw how it was, attempted to calm him, and induced him to take a seat, and to release his hat from his trembling fingers. Then he said, with something of a tremor in his voice,—
“Now, old man, tell us all about it.”