He had one more duty to perform before he left England.  He had to say good-bye to John Saltram, whom he had not seen since they parted that night at Lidford.  He could not leave England without some kind of farewell to his old friend, and he had reserved this last evening for the duty.

He went to the Pnyx on the chance of finding Saltram there, and failing in that, ate his solitary dinner in the coffee-room.  The waiters told him that Mr. Saltram had not been at the club for some weeks.  Gilbert did not waste much time over his dinner, and went straight from the Pnyx to the Temple, where John Saltram had a second-floor in Figtree-court.

Mr. Saltram was at home.  It was his own sonorous voice which answered Gilbert’s knock, bidding him enter with a muttered curse upon the interruption by way of addendum.  The room into which Mr. Fenton went upon receiving this unpromising invitation was in a state of chaotic confusion.  An open portmanteau sprawled upon the floor, and a whole wardrobe of masculine garments seemed to have been shot at random on to the chairs near it; a dozen soda-water bottles, full and empty, were huddled in one corner; a tea-tray tottered on the extreme edge of a table heaped with dusty books and papers; and at a desk in the centre of the room, with a great paraffin lamp flaring upon his face as he wrote, sat John Saltram, surrounded by fallen slips of copy, writing as if to win a wager.

“Who is it? and what do you want?” he asked in a husky voice, without looking up from his paper or suspending the rapid progress of his pen.

“Why, Jack, I don’t think I ever caught you so hard at work before.”

John Saltram dropped his pen at the sound of his friend’s voice and got up.  He gave Gilbert his hand in a mechanical kind of way.

“No, I don’t generally go at it quite so hard; but you know I have a knack of doing things against time.  I have been giving myself a spell of hard work in order to pick up a little cash for the children of Israel.”

He dropped back into his chair, and Gilbert took one opposite him.  The lamp shone full upon John Saltram’s face as he sat at his desk; and after looking at him for a moment by that vivid light, Gilbert Fenton gave a cry of surprise.

“What is the matter, Gil?”

“You are the matter.  You are looking as worn and haggard as if you’d had a long illness since I saw you last.  I never remember you looking so ill.  This kind of thing won’t do, John.  You’d soon kill yourself at this rate.”

“Not to be done, my dear fellow.  I am the toughest thing in creation.  I have been sitting up all night for the last week or so, and that does rather impair the freshness of one’s complexion; but I assure you there’s nothing so good for a man as a week or two of unbroken work.  I have been doing an exhaustive review of Roman literature for one of the quarterlies, and the subject involved a little more reading than I was quite prepared for.”