Passing through this apartment, John Steele stepped into that adjoining,
the sitting-and dining-room. The small table had already been set; the
sun's dying rays that shot through the window revealed snowy linen,
brightly gleaming silver and a number of papers and letters. They
showed, also, a large cage with a small bird that chirped as the man
came in; John Steele looked at it a moment, walked to a mirror and
looked at himself. Long the deep eyes studied the firm resolute face;
they seemed endeavoring to gaze beyond it; but the present visage, like
a shadow, waved before him. The man's expression became inscrutable;
stepping to the window, he gazed out on the Thames. A purplish glimmer
lent enchantment to the noble stream; it may be as he looked upon it,
his thoughts flowed with the river, past dilapidated structures, between
whispering reeds on green banks, to the sea!

A discreet rapping at the door, followed by the appearance of a
round-faced little man, with a tray, interrupted further contemplation
or reverie on John Steele's part. Seating himself at the table, he
responded negatively to the servant's inquiry if "anythink" else would
be required, and when the man had withdrawn, mechanically turned to his
letters and to his simple evening repast. He ate with no great evidence
of appetite, soon brushed the missives, half-read, aside, and pushed
back his chair.

Lighting a pipe he picked up one of the papers, and for some moments his
attention seemed fairly divided between a casual inspection of the light
arabesques that ascended in clouds from his lips and the heavy-looking
columns of the morning sheet. Suddenly, however, the latter dissipated
his further concern in his pipe; he put it down and spread out the big
paper in both hands. Amid voluminous wastes of type an item, in the
court and society column, had caught his eye: