When we came down to the dining-room for supper, Mrs.
Cullingworth was waiting there to greet me. I was sorry
to see that she was pale and weary-looking. However, we
had a merry meal in the old style, and her husband's
animation reflected itself upon her face, until at last
we might have been back in the little room, where the
Medical Journals served as a chair, instead of in the
great oak-furnished, picture-hung chamber to which we had
been promoted. All the time, however, not one word as to
the object of my journey.

When the supper was finished, Cullingworth led
the way into a small sitting-room, where we both lit our
pipes, and Mrs. Cullingworth her cigarette. He sat for
some little time in silence, and then bounding up rushed
to the door and flung it open. It is always one of his
strange peculiarities to think that people are
eavesdropping or conspiring against him; for, in spite of
his superficial brusqueness and frankness, a strange vein
of suspicion runs through his singular and complex
nature. Having satisfied himself now that there were no
spies or listeners he threw himself down into his
armchair.

"Munro," said he, prodding at me with his pipe, "what
I wanted to tell you is, that I am utterly, hopelessly,
and irretrievably ruined."

My chair was tilted on its back legs as he spoke, and