the bookshelves, clutching at them, in the attitude of a man who has received a staggering blow, from which, as yet, he has had no opportunity of recovering.  A most extraordinary change had taken place in the expression of his face; in his countenance amazement, fear, and horror seemed struggling for the mastery.  I was filled with a most discomforting qualm, as I gazed at the frightened figure in front of me, and realised that it was that of the great Paul Lessingham, the god of my political idolatry.

‘Who are you?—­In God’s name, who are you?’

His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe.

’Who are you?—­Do you hear me ask, who are you?  In the name of God, I bid you say!’

As he perceived that I was still, he began to show a species of excitement which it was unpleasant to witness, especially as he continued to crouch against the bookshelf, as if he was afraid to stand up straight.  So far from exhibiting the impassivity for which he was renowned, all the muscles in his face and all the limbs in his body seemed to be in motion at once; he was like a man afflicted with the shivering ague,—­his very fingers were twitching aimlessly, as they were stretched out on either side of him, as if seeking for support from the shelves against which he leaned.

’Where have you come from? what do you want? who sent you here? what concern have you with me? is it necessary that you should come and play these childish tricks with me? why? why?’

The questions came from him with astonishing rapidity.  When he saw that I continued silent, they came still faster, mingled with what sounded to me like a stream of inchoate abuse.

’Why do you stand there in that extraordinary garment,—­it’s worse than nakedness, yes, worse than nakedness!  For that alone I could have you punished, and I will!—­and try to play the fool?  Do you think I am a boy to be bamboozled by every bogey a blunderer may try to conjure up?  If so, you’re wrong, as whoever sent you might have had sense enough to let you know.  If you tell me who you are, and who sent you here, and what it is you want, I will be merciful; if not, the police shall be sent for, and the law shall take its course,—­to the bitter end!—­I warn you.—­Do you hear?  You fool! tell me who you are?’

The last words came from him in what was very like a burst of childish fury.  He himself seemed conscious, the moment after, that his passion was sadly lacking in dignity, and to be ashamed of it.  He drew himself straight up.  With a pocket-handkerchief which he took from an inner pocket of his coat, he wiped his lips.  Then, clutching it tightly in his hand, he eyed me with a fixedness which, under any other circumstances, I should have found unbearable.

’Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the role you have set yourself to play?’