'Sir Wilfrid Monson, sir,' exclaimed my man.
It was half-past ten o'clock at night, and I was in my lodgings in Bury Street, St. James, slippers on feet, a pipe of tobacco in my hand, seltzer and brandy at my elbow, and on my knees the 'Sun' newspaper, the chief evening sheet of the times.
'Sir Wilfrid Monson, sir.'
My cousin! thought I, starting, and looking round at my man with a fancy in me for a moment that he had got the wrong name. 'Show him in.'
Sir Wilfrid entered in a sort of swift headlong way, full of nervousness and passion, as was to be seen easily enough; and then he came to a dead stop with a wild look round the room, as if to make sure that I was alone, and a frowning stare at my servant, who was lingering a moment on the threshold as though suddenly surprised out of his habits of prompt sleek attendance by a fit of astonishment.
