Hume stopped; looking as if he were allowing “he dare not” to wait upon “he would.” “Well, Hume, go on. Your friend did not give Turner an opportunity to punish him for his bad behaviour. If you behave badly, I assure you that I shall avail myself of any chance which may offer to punish you. Pray finish the remark you were about to make.” Hume said nothing. He did not even glance in my direction. But he looked at Turner, and walked out of the room. “He looks like killing some one himself,” said Turner, when he was gone. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” I wonder how much he would have given, at that moment, to have made sure of killing me--for choice, upon the gallows. CHAPTER XVI. MY PERSUASIVE MANNER I went at once to the house in Arlington Street. The door was opened by Mr. Morley. “Have you heard anything of Mr. Philip? Is he at home?” Mr. Morley had opened the door about six inches, peeping through the crevice as if he expected to see some dreadful object on the doorstep. The sight of me seemed to reassure him. He addressed me in a sepulchral whisper. “Would you mind stepping inside for a moment, sir?” I went into a front room on the ground floor. Mr. Morley came in after me, and, behind him, Mrs. Morley. I was conscious that the room was filled with old oak furniture. It is, perhaps, because I am not a man of taste that I would not have an apartment in which I proposed to live filled with that funereal wood. Old black oak furniture reminds me of an African swamp. It is dark and sombre--heavy, stiff, ungainly. Without, the shadows had deepened; in the house it was darker still. The room was still unlighted. The figures of the old man and woman, revealed in the half light, harmonised with the ancient blackness of the furniture. As they stood side by side, as close together as they could get, with, on them both, an air of timidity which the darkness could not hide, I felt that there was a blight upon them, and on the room, and on the house; that it was a place of doom. “I take it that Mr. Philip has not returned.” They looked at one another; as if each was unwilling to incur the responsibility of a reply. At last the husband took it on himself. “No, sir; he’s not returned, but----” “Well, but what?” For the old gentleman had paused. He spoke to his wife, in a whisper which was perfectly audible-- “Shall I tell him, Emma?” “It’s not for me to speak. That, Joe, is for you to say.” “This is Mr. Ferguson; he’s Mr. Philip’s friend.” “If he’s Mr. Philip’s friend----” “Come,” I said, “I see you’ve heard from him.” “Yes, sir, we’ve heard from him. That--that’s the trouble.” “What is it you’ve heard?” Again the reference to his wife. “Shall I--shall I tell him, Emma?” “I’ve already told you, Joe, that that’s for you to say. It’s not for me to speak.” Plainly Joe hesitated, then arrived at a sudden decision. “Well, sir, this is what we’ve heard.” He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket, which he gave to me.