So Mr. Burkham had gradually melted into the dimness of
Bloomsbury, and haunted the club-room of the Ragamuffins no more.
A hansom carried Valentine Hawkehurst swiftly to these regions of
Bloomsbury. It was no time for the saving of cab-hire. The soldier
of fortune thought no longer of his nest-eggs--his Unitas Bank
deposit-notes. He was fighting with time and with death; foes dire and
dreadful, against whose encroachments the sturdiest of mortal warriors
can make but a feeble stand. He found the dingy-looking house in the
dingy-looking street; and the humble drudge who opened the door informed
him that Mr. Burkham was at home, and ushered him into a darksome and
dreary surgery at the back of the house, where a phrenological head,
considerably the worse for London smoke, surmounted a dingy bookcase
filled with the dingiest of books. A table, upon which were a
blotting-book and inkstand, and two shabby horsehair chairs, composed the
rest of the furniture. Valentine sent his card to the surgeon, and seated
himself on one of the horsehair chairs, to await that gentleman's
appearance.
He came after a brief delay, which seemed long to his visitor. He came
from regions in the back of the house, rubbing his hands, which seemed
to have been newly washed, and the odour of senna and aloes hung about
his garments.
"I doubt if you remember my name, Mr. Burkham," said Valentine; "but you
and I are members of the same club, and that a club among the members of
which considerable good feeling prevails.
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