His mind soon passed from thought to reverie.  He fell to wondering when his friends would find work and relieve him of the burden—­he acknowledged it as such—­of keeping them, and of letting another man wear his best clothes on alternate Sundays.  He wondered when his “luck” would turn.  There were one or two influential people in New York whom he could go and see if he had a dress suit and the other conventional uniforms.  His thoughts ran on far ahead, and at the same time, by a sort of double process, far behind as well.  His home in the “old country” rose up before him; he saw the lawn and the cedars in sunshine; he looked through the familiar windows and saw the clean, swept rooms.  His story began to suffer; the psychological masterpiece would not make much progress unless he pulled up and dragged his thoughts back to the treadmill.  But he no longer cared; once he had got as far as that cedar with the sunshine on it, he never could get back again.  For all he cared, the troublesome sentence might run away and get into someone else’s pages, or be snuffed out altogether.

There came a gentle knock at the door, and Blake started.  The knock was repeated louder.  Who in the world could it be at this late hour of the night?  On the floor above, he remembered, there lived another Englishman, a foolish, second-rate creature, who sometimes came in and made himself objectionable with endless and silly chatter.  But he was an Englishman for all that, and Blake always tried to treat him with politeness, realising that he was lonely in a strange land.  But to-night, of all people in the world, he did not want to be bored with Perry’s cackle, as he called it, and the “Come in” he gave in answer to the second knock had no very cordial sound of welcome in it.

However, the door opened in response, and the man came in.  Blake did not turn round at once, and the other advanced to the centre of the room, but without speaking.  Then Blake knew it was not his enemy, Perry, and turned round.

He saw a man of about forty standing in the middle of the carpet, but standing sideways so that he did not present a full face.  He wore an overcoat buttoned up to the neck, and on the felt hat which he held in front of him fresh rain-drops glistened.  In his other hand he carried a small black bag.  Blake gave him a good look, and came to the conclusion that he might be a secretary, or a chief clerk, or a confidential man of sorts.  He was a shabby-respectable-looking person.  This was the sum-total of the first impression, gained the moment his eyes took in that it was not Perry; the second impression was less pleasant, and reported at once that something was wrong.

Though otherwise young and inexperienced, Blake—­thanks, or curses, to the police court training—­knew more about common criminal blackguardism than most men of fifty, and he recognised that there was somewhere a suggestion of this undesirable world about the man.  But there was more than this.  There was something singular about him, something far out of the common, though for the life of him Blake could not say wherein it lay.  The fellow was out of the ordinary, and in some very undesirable manner.