'How the devil did he come in?'

'Hush!'was all that Tom Wealdon said, looking at the gaunt spectre with
less of fear than inquisitiveness.

'What are you doing here, Sir?' demanded Lake, in his most unpleasant
tones.

'Prophesying,' answered the phantom.

'You had better write your prophecies in your room, Sir--had not
you?--and give them to the Archbishop of Canterbury to proclaim, when
they are finished; we are busy here just now, and don't require
revelations, if you please.'

The old man lifted up his long lean finger, and turned on him with a
smile which I hate even to remember.

'Let him alone,' whispered the Town Clerk, in a significant whisper,
'don't cross him, and he'll not stay long.'

'_You_'re here, a scribe,' murmured Uncle Lorne, looking upon Tom
Wealdon.

'Aye, Sir, a scribe and a Pharisee, a Sadducee and a publican, and a
priest, and a Levite,' said the functionary, with a wink at Lake. 'Thomas
Wealdon, Sir; happy to see you, Sir, so well and strong, and likely to
enlighten the religious world for many a day to come. It's a long time,
Sir, since I had the honour of seeing you; and I'm always, of course, at
your command.'