’He ran on like this, forgetting his plate, with a knife and fork in hand (he had found me at tiffin), slightly flushed, and with his eyes darkened many shades, which was with him a sign of excitement.  The ring was a sort of credential—­("It’s like something you read of in books,” he threw in appreciatively)—­and Doramin would do his best for him.  Mr. Stein had been the means of saving that chap’s life on some occasion; purely by accident, Mr. Stein had said, but he—­Jim—­had his own opinion about that.  Mr. Stein was just the man to look out for such accidents.  No matter.  Accident or purpose, this would serve his turn immensely.  Hoped to goodness the jolly old beggar had not gone off the hooks meantime.  Mr. Stein could not tell.  There had been no news for more than a year; they were kicking up no end of an all-fired row amongst themselves, and the river was closed.  Jolly awkward, this; but, no fear; he would manage to find a crack to get in.

’He impressed, almost frightened, me with his elated rattle.  He was voluble like a youngster on the eve of a long holiday with a prospect of delightful scrapes, and such an attitude of mind in a grown man and in this connection had in it something phenomenal, a little mad, dangerous, unsafe.  I was on the point of entreating him to take things seriously when he dropped his knife and fork (he had begun eating, or rather swallowing food, as it were, unconsciously), and began a search all round his plate.  The ring!  The ring!  Where the devil . . .  Ah!  Here it was . . .  He closed his big hand on it, and tried all his pockets one after another.  Jove! wouldn’t do to lose the thing.  He meditated gravely over his fist.  Had it?  Would hang the bally affair round his neck!  And he proceeded to do this immediately, producing a string (which looked like a bit of a cotton shoe-lace) for the purpose.  There!  That would do the trick!  It would be the deuce if . . .  He seemed to catch sight of my face for the first time, and it steadied him a little.  I probably didn’t realise, he said with a naive gravity, how much importance he attached to that token.  It meant a friend; and it is a good thing to have a friend.  He knew something about that.  He nodded at me expressively, but before my disclaiming gesture he leaned his head on his hand and for a while sat silent, playing thoughtfully with the bread-crumbs on the cloth . . .  “Slam the door—­that was jolly well put,” he cried, and jumping up, began to pace the room, reminding me by the set of the shoulders, the turn of his head, the headlong and uneven stride, of that night when he had paced thus, confessing, explaining—­what you will—­but, in the last instance, living—­living before me, under his own little cloud, with all his unconscious subtlety which could draw consolation from the very source of sorrow.  It was the same mood, the same and different, like a fickle companion that to-day guiding you on the true path, with the same eyes, the same step, the same impulse, to-morrow