"It was that infernal Maitland's hint that he can't swallow," said Lloyd, as he seated himself at an empty table on the verge of the crowd and ordered some brandy. "He referred to it just now when he said he wouldn't be treated like a child. O he's never spoken to me like that since we've been together.--Here!" to the waiter who brought the brandy, "_encore_; another of these _carafons_. What's the good of a drop like that to a man!--He's never been the same since that night he dined with those fellows, after he had been over to that place to-- Lord! I forgot--to propose to _her!_ Of course _she_ must be mixed up in everything that's unlucky for me! How I wish I'd never set eyes on her! how I wish--What the devil does this fellow want!"
"This fellow" was a short, square-built man of about fifty years of age, with sunken eyes, a sharp-pointed nose, and a close-cut beard, the original red colour of which was fast fading into gray. His seedy clothes were of a foreign and fantastic cut, and round his neck he wore a long, dirty-white cravat, folded quite flat, and wonderfully neatly tied, and fastened in front with a flashy mock pin. "This fellow" had been hanging round the table for some time, dodging in and out so as to get a better view of its occupant in the dim light. At length, when Gilbert Lloyd raised his head and looked up at the strange figure, "this fellow" seemed to be satisfied, and shambling up to the table, placed his hands upon it, leaned over, and said in a thick, husky voice,
Lloyd looked at him steadily, and then said, "That's my name; who are you?"
"I thought you would not know me," said the stranger with a laugh, "none of my old pals do; at least, most don't, and some won't, so it don't make much--"
"Stay," interrupted Lloyd; "I know you now; knew you directly you threw your head back and I saw your cravat. There's only one man in the world can tie a neckerchief like that, or get its folds to lie as flat. You're Foxey Walker."
"I am that same," said the stranger; "at least, I was when I was alive, for I'm nothing but a blessed old ghost now, I verily believe.--Here, you fellow, bring some brandy; Cognac, you know!--I ain't of much 'count now, Lloyd, and that's a fact." He was shabby and bloated and shaky, altogether very different from the tight, trim little Foxey, who was found leaning over the rails on Brighton Esplanade at the commencement of this story.