He put his handkerchief to his eyes and leaned back exhausted. When he
removed it, he found himself alone and everything still but for a murmur
of voices overhead. Anon steps sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Hatchard,
grave of face, entered the room.

"Outside!" he said, briefly.

"What!" said the astounded Mr. Sadler. "Why, it's eleven o'clock."

"I can't help it if it's twelve o'clock," was the reply. "You shouldn't
play the fool and spoil things by laughing. Now, are you going, or have
I got to put you out?"

He crossed the room and, putting his hand on the shoulder of the
protesting Mr. Sadler, pushed him into the passage, and taking his coat
from the peg held it up for him. Mr. Sadler, abandoning himself to his
fate, got into it slowly and indulged in a few remarks on the subject of
ingratitude.

"I can't help it," said his friend, in a low voice. "I've had to swear
I've never seen you before."

"Does she believe you?" said the staring Mr. Sadler, shivering at the
open door.

"No," said Mr. Hatchard, slowly, "but she pre-tends to."