I was not sorry that my visit was drawing to a close, for it is unpleasant to feel that there is one person in the house who eagerly desires your departure.  Mrs. King’s sallow face and forbidding eyes had become more and more hateful to me.  She was no longer actively rude—­her fear of her husband prevented her—­but she pushed her insane jealousy to the extent of ignoring me, never addressing me, and in every way making my stay at Greylands as uncomfortable as she could.  So offensive was her manner during that last day, that I should certainly have left had it not been for that interview with my host in the evening which would, I hoped, retrieve my broken fortunes.

It was very late when it occurred, for my relative, who had been receiving even more telegrams than usual during the day, went off to his study after dinner, and only emerged when the household had retired to bed.  I heard him go round locking the doors, as custom was of a night, and finally he joined me in the billiard-room.  His stout figure was wrapped in a dressing-gown, and he wore a pair of red Turkish slippers without any heels.  Settling down into an arm-chair, he brewed himself a glass of grog, in which I could not help noticing that the whisky considerably predominated over the water.

“My word!” said he, “what a night!”

It was, indeed.  The wind was howling and screaming round the house, and the latticed windows rattled and shook as if they were coming in.  The glow of the yellow lamps and the flavour of our cigars seemed the brighter and more fragrant for the contrast.

“Now, my boy,” said my host, “we have the house and the night to ourselves.  Let me have an idea of how your affairs stand, and I will see what can be done to set them in order.  I wish to hear every detail.”

Thus encouraged, I entered into a long exposition, in which all my tradesmen and creditors from my landlord to my valet, figured in turn.  I had notes in my pocket-book, and I marshalled my facts, and gave, I flatter myself, a very businesslike statement of my own unbusinesslike ways and lamentable position.  I was depressed, however, to notice that my companion’s eyes were vacant and his attention elsewhere.  When he did occasionally throw out a remark it was so entirely perfunctory and pointless, that I was sure he had not in the least followed my remarks.  Every now and then he roused himself and put on some show of interest, asking me to repeat or to explain more fully, but it was always to sink once more into the same brown study.  At last he rose and threw the end of his cigar into the grate.

“I’ll tell you what, my boy,” said he.  “I never had a head for figures, so you will excuse me.  You must jot it all down upon paper, and let me have a note of the amount.  I’ll understand it when I see it in black and white.”

The proposal was encouraging.  I promised to do so.

“And now it’s time we were in bed.  By Jove, there’s one o’clock striking in the hall.”