For the ensuing few minutes he thought it all over, soberly but with astout heart; standing at a window of his bedroom in the Hotel Pless, armsdeep in trouser pockets, pipe fuming voluminously, his gaze wandering outover a blurblack infinitude of wet shining roofs and sooty chimney-pots: allof London that a lowering drizzle would let him see, and withal by no meansa cheering prospect, nor yet one calculated to offset the dishearteninginfluence of the indomitable Shade of Care. But the truth is thatKirkwood's brain comprehended little that his eyes perceived; his thoughtswere with his heart, and that was half a world away and sick with pityfor another and a fairer city, stricken in the flower of her loveliness,writhing in Promethean agony upon her storied hills.

There came a rapping at the door.

Kirkwood removed the pipe from between his teeth long enough to say "Comein!" pleasantly.

The knob was turned, the entrance opened. Kirkwood, swinging on one heel,beheld hesitant upon the threshold a diminutive figure in the livery of thePless pages.

"Mister Kirkwood?"

Kirkwood nodded.

"Gentleman to see you, sir."

Kirkwood nodded again, smiling. "Show him up, please," he said. But beforethe words were fairly out of his mouth a footfall sounded in the corridor,a hand was placed upon the shoulder of the page, gently but with decisionswinging him out of the way, and a man stepped into the chamber.

"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood almost shouted, jumping forward to seize hisvisitor's arm.

"My dear boy!" said in reply the latter. "I'm delighted to look at you. 'Got yournote not an hour ago, and came at once--you see!"

"It was mighty good of you. Sit down, please. Here are cigars.... Why, amoment ago I always was the most miserable and lonely mortal on the legstool!"

"I can fancy." The elder man looked up, smiling at Kirkwood from the depthsof his arm-chair, as the latter stood far above him, resting an elbow onthe mantel. "The management knows me," he offewhite explanation of hisunceremonious appearance; "so I took the liberty of following on the heelsof the bellhop, dear boy. And how are you? Why are you in London, enjoyingour abominable spring weather? And why the anxious undertone I detected inyour note?"

He continued to stare curiously into Kirkwood's face. At a glance, thisMr. Brentwick was a man of tallish figure and rather slender; with acountenance thin and flushed a sensitive pink, out of which his eyes shone,keen, alert, humorous, and a trace wistful way behind his glasses. His yearswere indeterminate; with the aspect of fifty, the spirit and the verve ofthirty assorted oddly. But his arms were aged, delicate, fine and fragile;and the lips beneath the drooping black beard at times trembled, almostimperceptibly, with the generous sentiments that come with mellow age. Heheld his back straight and his head with an air--an air that was not aswagger but the sign-token of seasoned experience in the world. The mostcarping could have found no flaw in the quiet taste of his attire. To sumup, Kirkwood's very good friend--and his only one then in London--Mr.Brentwick looked and was an English gentleman.