Charles, meanwhile, had risen and dressed, and came out when Bridget knocked; a spectacle, indeed,—­a walking sermon on the perils that may follow what are termed “good times.”  His face would have been pale, except that his nose, which was as puffy as an omelette soufflee, and his left eye with a drooping lid sustained by a livid crescent, gave it a rubicund expression.  His knees were shaky, his pulse feeble, his head top-heavy.  He declined assistance rather sulkily, and descended holding by the stair-rail and stepping gingerly.  Number Two, in spite of his genial, unruffled temper, could not repress his surprise, as the apparition passed the parlor-door.

“A rum customer!  Ha!” (Con anima.)

Before the repentant owner of the puffy nose and purple eyelid had finished his solitary breakfast, Mr. Sandford came home.  He had obtained bail and was at large.  Looking hastily into the parlor, he saw a stranger, with his hat jauntily on one side, seated in the damask-covered chair, with his feet on an embroidered ottoman, turning over a bound collection of sea-mosses, and Marcia’s guitar lying across his lap.  He was dumb with astonishment.  Polite Number Two did not leave him to burst in ignorance.

“All right.  Mr. Sandford, I suppose.  An ’tachment put on, and I’m keeper.  Sorry to disturb a family.  But somebody has to.  Can I do anything to obleege you?”

“Yes, by laying down that book which you are spoiling.  And you may take your greasy boots off that worsted-work, and put the stopper into that Bohemian-glass bottle.”

“Beg your pardon, Sir.  Didn’t intend to make trouble.  Boots has to be greased, you know, else they crack all out, an’ don’t last no time; mine do.  This ’ere Cologne is nice, to be sure.  I jest poured out a bit on my pocket-handkercher.”

“Cologne!  It’s attar of roses; and you’ve spilled more than your neck is worth,—­taking yourself at your own valuation.”

“Why, you don’t say this is high-cost?  It does smell good, though, ha!”

As he started to go up-stairs, Mr. Sandford saw the linen carpet-cover spattered with frequent drops of blood.  He called aloud to his sister,—­

“Marcia! are you there? alive?  What’s the meaning of this blood?  Who has been murdered?  Or is this turned into a butcher’s shop?”

Marcia and her sister-in-law descended, and hurriedly explained the mystery.  While they were standing at the head of the stairs, Charles made his appearance, and received such congratulations from his brother as might be expected.  He vouchsafed no word of reply, but went into the room where he had slept to get some article he had left.  A sudden thought struck Mr. Sandford.  He followed Charles into the room, and in a moment after returned,—­but so changed!  Imagine Captain Absolute at the duelling-ground turned in a twinkling into Bob Acres, Lucy Bertram putting on the frenzied look of Meg Merrilies, or the even-tempered Gratiano metamorphosed into the horror-stricken, despairing Shylock at the moment he hears his sentence, and you have some notion of the expression which Sandford’s face wore.  His eyes were fixed like baleful lights in a haggard, corpse-like countenance.  His hair was disordered.  He clutched his cravat as though suffocating.  His voice was gone; he whispered feebly, like one of Ossian’s ghosts,—­