"Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind. ’ ‘That depends, that does,’ said Trodger guardedly. . It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. He wanted to talk with the patient, test him variously; and he wanted to be alone with him while he put these tests. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path.
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