thus, my acquaintance was another man. I realized that there was
something unnatural about the long, white hair, the gray face;
that the sharp outline of brow, nose, and chin was that of a much
younger man than I had supposed him to be.

All this came to me in a momentary flash of perception, for
immediately my attention was riveted upon a figure hunched up on
a dilapidated sofa on the opposite side of the room. It was that
of a big man, bearded and very heavily built, but whose face
was scarred as by years of suffering, and whose eyes confirmed
the story indicated by the smell of stale spirits with which the
air of the room was laden. A nearly empty bottle stood on a
table at his elbow, a glass beside it, and a pipe lay in a saucer
full of ashes near the glass.

As we entered, the glazed eyes of the man opened widely and he
clutched at the table with big red hands, leaning forward and
staring horribly.

Save for this derelict figure and some few dirty utensils and
scattered garments which indicated that the apartment was used
both as sleeping and living room, there was so little of interest
in the place that automatically my wandering gaze strayed from
the figure on the sofa to a large oil painting, unframed, which
rested upon the mantelpiece above the dirty grate, in which the
fire had become extinguished.

I uttered a stifled exclamation. It was "A Dream at Dawn"--
evidently the original painting!