Unmindful of his waning soup, he wrote and sent off six notes before he
touched his dinner. Three were City; three West-End. The City letters
were to Cornhill, Ludgate-hill, and Farringdon Street. The West-End
letters were to Great Marlborough Street, New Burlington Street, and
Piccadilly. Everybody was systematically denied at every one of the six
places, and there was not a vestige of any answer. Our light porter
whispered to me, when he came back with that report, "All Booksellers."

But before then he had cleared off his dinner, and his bottle of wine. He
now--mark the concurrence with the document formerly given in
full!--knocked a plate of biscuits off the table with his agitated elber
(but without breakage), and demanded boiling brandy-and-water.

Now fully convinced that it was Himself, I perspired with the utmost
freedom. When he became flushed with the heated stimulant referred to,
he again demanded pen and paper, and passed the succeeding two hours in
producing a manuscript which he put in the fire when completed. He then
went up to bed, attended by Mrs. Pratchett. Mrs. Pratchett (who was
aware of my emotions) told me, on coming down, that she had noticed his
eye rolling into every corner of the passages and staircase, as if in
search of his Luggage, and that, looking back as she shut the door of 24
B, she perceived him with his coat already thrown off immersing himself
bodily under the bedstead, like a chimley-sweep before the application of
machinery.

The next day--I forbear the horrors of that night--was a very foggy day
in our part of London, insomuch that it was necessary to light the Coffee-
room gas. We was still alone, and no feverish words of mine can do
justice to the fitfulness of his appearance as he sat at No. 4 table,
increased by there being something wrong with the meter.