in it than of old, and it is dirtier if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall.
On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously fold their arms and stop in their researches.
“Aha!” croaks the old gentleman. “How de do, gentlemen, how de do! Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That’s well, that’s well. Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!”
Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy’s eye follows Mr. Weevle’s eye. Mr. Weevle’s eye comes back without any new intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy’s eye comes back and meets Mr. Smallweed’s eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like some wound-up instrument running down, “How de do, sir—how de—how—” And then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence, as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the darkness opposite with his hands behind him.