In the distance he saw old Ridding,—­distinctly; and distinctly he saw that old Ridding saw him.  He was sitting at the far end of the great parlour, facing the entrance, by the side of something vast and black heaped up in the adjacent chair.  He had the look on his pink and naturally pleasant face of one who has abandoned hope.  On seeing Mr. Twist a ray of interest lit him up, and he half rose.  The formless mass in the next chair which Mr. Twist had taken for inanimate matter, probably cushions and wraps, and now perceived was one of the higher mammals, put out a hand and said something,—­at least, it opened that part of its face which is called a mouth but which to Mr. Twist in the heated and abnormal condition of his brain seemed like the snap-to of some great bag,—­and at that moment a group of people crossed the hall in front of old Ridding, and when the path was again clear the chair that had contained him was empty.  He had disappeared.  Completely.  Only the higher mammal was left, watching Mr. Twist with heavy eyes like two smouldering coals.

He couldn’t face those eyes.  He did try to, and hesitated while he tried, and then he found he couldn’t; so he swerved away to the right, and went out quickly by the side door.

There was now one other person left who would perhaps clear him up as to the meaning of all this, and he was the lawyer he had gone to about the guardianship.  True he had been angry with him at the time, but that was chiefly because he had been angry with himself.  At bottom he had carried away an impression of friendliness.  To this man he would now go as a last resource before turning back home, and once more he raced up Main Street in his Ford, producing by these repeated appearances an effect of agitation and restlessness that wasn’t lost on the beholders.

The lawyer was in his office, and disengaged.  After his morning’s experience Mr. Twist was quite surprised and much relieved by being admitted at once.  He was received neither coldly nor warmly, but with unmistakable interest.

“I’ve come to consult you,” said Mr. Twist.

The lawyer nodded.  He hadn’t supposed he had come not to consult him, but he was used to patience with clients, and he well knew their preference in conversation for the self-evident.

“I want a straight answer to a straight question,” said Mr. Twist, his great spectacles glaring anxiously at the lawyer who again nodded.

“Go on,” he said, as Mr. Twist paused.

“What I want to know is,” burst out Mr. Twist, “what the hell—­”

The lawyer put up a hand.  “One moment, Mr. Twist,” he said.  “Sorry to interrupt—­”

And he got up quickly, and went to a door in the partition between his office and his clerks’ room.

“You may go out to lunch now,” he said, opening it a crack.

He then shut it, and came back to his seat at the table.

“Yes, Mr. Twist?” he said, settling down again.  “You were inquiring what the hell—?”