IV
ENTER MR. WHITCOMB
For the second time that evening Northcote
peered through the gloom of his chamber with a
thrill of curious expectancy. The visit of the scarecrow
had been forgotten in the torments of his
passion, but the sound of his own name on the lips
of the unknown resummoned that phantom to his
mind. But in the room of one so frail was a robust
and spreading presence.
"To whom do I owe a welcome?" muttered Northcote, and as he rose from his knees his words seemed to be lost in the vibrations of his heart.
"Mr. Northcote it is," said the round and full tones of the invader.
The advocate, trembling in every limb, was conscious of a powerful and confident grasp of the hand. And then as his eyes encountered the outlines of his visitor, he was seized with a pang of disappointment, for he had looked to see something different.
"Don't you know me, Mr. Northcote?" said the voice—the conventional voice which had already smote the starving man with a sense of the intolerable.
"I am afraid I do not," he said, heavily.
"Well, I thought Samuel Whitcomb was known to every member of the bar."
