“She was—­a very—­remarkable—­woman—­She——­”

I found myself wondering which was real; the common with its misty hedges and the blurred moon; or this room with its ranks of uniformly bound books and its bust of the great man that threw a portentous shadow upward from its pedestal behind the lamp.

Before I had entirely recovered myself, the notables were departing to catch the last train.  I was left alone with Callan.

He did not trouble to resume his attitude for me, and when he did speak, spoke faster.

“Interesting man, Mr. Jinks?” he said; “you recognised him?”

“No,” I said; “I don’t think I ever met him.”

Callan looked annoyed.

“I thought I’d got him pretty well.  He’s Hector Steele.  In my ‘Blanfield,’” he added.

“Indeed!” I said.  I had never been able to read “Blanfield.”  “Indeed, ah, yes—­of course.”

There was an awkward pause.

“The whiskey will be here in a minute,” he said, suddenly.  “I don’t have it in when Whatnot’s here.  He’s the Rector, you know; a great temperance man.  When we’ve had a—­a modest quencher—­we’ll get to business.”

“Oh,” I said, “your letters really meant—­”

“Of course,” he answered.  “Oh, here’s the whiskey.  Well now, Fox was down here the other night.  You know Fox, of course?”

“Didn’t he start the rag called—?”

“Yes, yes,” Callan answered, hastily, “he’s been very successful in launching papers.  Now he’s trying his hand with a new one.  He’s any amount of backers—­big names, you know.  He’s to run my next as a feuilleton.  This—­this venture is to be rather more serious in tone than any that he’s done hitherto.  You understand?”

“Why, yes,” I said; “but I don’t see where I come in.”

Callan took a meditative sip of whiskey, added a little more water, a little more whiskey, and then found the mixture to his liking.

“You see,” he said, “Fox got a letter here to say that Wilkinson had died suddenly—­some affection of the heart.  Wilkinson was to have written a series of personal articles on prominent people.  Well, Fox was nonplussed and I put in a word for you.”

“I’m sure I’m much—­” I began.

“Not at all, not at all,” Callan interrupted, blandly.  “I’ve known you and you’ve known me for a number of years.”

A sudden picture danced before my eyes—­the portrait of the Callan of the old days—­the fawning, shady individual, with the seedy clothes, the furtive eyes and the obliging manners.

“Why, yes,” I said; “but I don’t see that that gives me any claim.”

Callan cleared his throat.

“The lapse of time,” he said in his grand manner, “rivets what we may call the bands of association.”

He paused to inscribe this sentence on the tablets of his memory.  It would be dragged in—­to form a purple patch—­in his new serial.

“You see,” he went on, “I’ve written a good deal of autobiographical matter and it would verge upon self-advertisement to do more.  You know how much I dislike that.  So I showed Fox your sketch in the Kensington.”