confusion. An open portmanteau sprawled upon the floor, and a whole
wardrobe of masculine garments seemed to have been shot at random on to
the chairs near it; a dozen soda-water bottles, full and empty, were
huddled in one corner; a tea-tray tottered on the extreme edge of a table
heaped with dusty books and papers; and at a desk in the centre of the
room, with a great paraffin lamp flaring upon his face as he wrote, sat
John Saltram, surrounded by fallen slips of copy, writing as if to win a
wager.

"Who is it? and what do you want?" he asked in a husky voice, without
looking up from his paper or suspending the rapid progress of his pen.

"Why, Jack, I don't think I ever caught you so hard at work before."

John Saltram dropped his pen at the sound of his friend's voice and got
up. He gave Gilbert his hand in a mechanical kind of way.

"No, I don't generally go at it quite so hard; but you know I have a
knack of doing things against time. I have been giving myself a spell of
hard work in order to pick up a little cash for the children of Israel."

He dropped back into his chair, and Gilbert took one opposite him. The
lamp shone full upon John Saltram's face as he sat at his desk; and after
looking at him for a moment by that vivid light, Gilbert Fenton gave a
cry of surprise.

"What is the matter, Gil?"

"You are the matter. You are looking as worn and haggard as if you'd had
a long illness since I saw you last. I never remember you looking so ill.