“One of us is,” said the owner of that name.
“All right, Governors Both,” returned the ghost, carefully closing the room door; “ ’tickler business.”
Mortimer lighted the candles. They showed the visitor to be an ill-looking visitor with a squinting leer, who, as he spoke, fumbled at an old sodden fur cap, formless and mangey, that looked like a furry animal, dog or cat, puppy or kitten, drowned and decaying.
“Now,” said Mortimer, “what is it?”
“Governors Both,” returned the man, in what he meant to be a wheedling tone, “which on you might be Lawyer Lightwood?”
“I am.”
“Lawyer Lightwood,” ducking at him with a servile air, “I am a man as gets my living, and as seeks to get my living, by the sweat of my brow. Not to risk being done out of the sweat of my brow, by any chances, I should wish afore going further to be swore in.”
“I am not a swearer in of people, man.”
The visitor, clearly anything but reliant on this assurance, doggedly muttered “Alfred David.”
“Is that your name?” asked Lightwood.
“My name?” returned the man. “No; I want to take a Alfred David.”
(Which Eugene, smoking and contemplating him, interpreted as meaning Affidavit.)
“I tell you, my good fellow,” said Lightwood, with his indolent laugh, “that I have nothing to do with swearing.”