At the same moment, the cold rain of the April night beat noisily
against the window.
"Sly old fellow!" said Maltboy.
"Up to something, depend on it," said Overtop.
Marcus walked rapidly toward the inventor's house. "My fate is decided
to-night," he muttered.
His long strides soon brought him to the house. The old building wore a
gloomy look. He did not speculate on the reason of this. It was probably
because there was no light visible in any of the front windows, and very
little light in the street lamps. The gas burned low and blue, and
flickered in the wind.
Ringing the bell, Marcus was admitted by one of the numerous children
belonging to somebody in the house (Marcus could never determine to
whom), and walked up to the inventor's room. His heart beat with strange
emotion as he rapped at the door. For a moment he was sorry that he
had come.
"Come in," said the inventor, in a voice more sepulchral than usual.
Marcus entered the apartment. The inventor received him with a feeble
shake of the hand, bearing no resemblance to the hearty one which he
used to bestow in the early days of their acquaintance.
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