When he entered John Street, he came to observe before reaching his
own door that a good many men were about in little quiet
groups--some twenty or so, here and there. When he let himself in
with his pass-key, there were two men in the entry. Without
stopping to speak, he ran up to his own chambers. When he got into
his sitting-room, there stood De Fleuri, who simply waved his hand
towards the old sofa. On it lay an elderly man, with his eyes half
open, and a look almost of idiocy upon his pale, puffed face, which
was damp and shining. His breathing was laboured, but there was no
further sign of suffering. He lay perfectly still. Falconer saw at
once that he was under the influence of some narcotic, probably
opium; and the same moment the all but conviction darted into his
mind that Andrew Falconer, his grandmother's son, lay there before
him. That he was his own father he had no feeling yet. He turned
to De Fleuri.
'Thank you, friend,' he said. 'I shall find time to thank you.'
'Are we right?' asked De Fleuri.
'I don't know. I think so,' answered Falconer; and without another
word the man withdrew.
His first mood was very strange. It seemed as if all the romance
had suddenly deserted his life, and it lay bare and hopeless. He
felt nothing. No tears rose to the brim of their bottomless
wells--the only wells that have no bottom, for they go into the
depths of the infinite soul. He sat down in his chair, stunned as
to the heart and all the finer chords of his nature.
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