opened the door. He had his

slippers on, and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his

greater ease. He had that rather wild, strained, seared marking

about the eyes which may be observed in all free livers of his class,

from the portrait of Jeffries downward, and which can be traced,

under various disguises of Art, through the portraits of every

Drinking Age.

“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.

“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”

They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with

papers, where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the

hob, and in the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with

plenty of wine upon it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and

lemons.

“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”

“Two tonight I think. I have been dining with the day’s client;

or seeing him dineit’s all one!”

“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon

the identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike

you?”

“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I

should have been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any

luck.”

Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.

“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”

Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an