Then he sank back into his chair. His look changed again.
The vision died out of his eyes.

"What was I saying?" he asked. "Ah, yes, this old brandy,
a very special brand. They keep it for me here, a dollar
a glass. They know me here," he added in his fatuous way.
"All the waiters know me. The headwaiter always knows me
the minute I come into the room--keeps a chair for me.
Now try this brandy and then presently we'll move on and
see what's doing at some of the shows."

But somehow, in spite of himself, my companion seemed to
be unable to bring himself fully back into the consciousness
of the scene before him. The far-away look still lingered
in his eyes.

Presently he turned and spoke to me in a low, confidential
tone.

"Was I talking to myself a moment ago?" he asked. "Yes?
Ah, I feared I was. Do you know--I don't mind telling it
to you--lately I've had a strange, queer feeling that
comes over me at times, as if _something were happening_
--something, I don't know what. I suppose," he continued,
with a false attempt at resuming his fatuous manner, "I'm
going the pace a little too hard, eh! Makes one fanciful.
But the fact is, at times"--he spoke gravely again--"I
feel as if there were something happening, something
coming."