The creature himself let in the cold; he seemed made of it. The snow clung to his shoulders; his shoes, tied up with strings, were encrusted with it. His coat, buttoned to his chin, frayed at the cuffs and edges, was thin and weather-stained. He had a pale face, a royal growth of beard--this was all Bulstrode had time to remark. He rose. "My servant says you want to see me. Come near the fire, won't you?" The visitor did not stir. Bewildered in the warmth of the room, he stood far back on the edge of the thick rug. To all appearances he was a bit of driftwood from the streets, one of the usual vagrant class who haunt the saloons and park and steer from lockup to night-lodging, until they finally steer themselves entirely off the face of history, and the potter's field gathers them in. Nothing but his entrance into this conventional room before this well-balanced member of decent society was peculiar. As he still neither moved nor spoke, Bulstrode, approaching him, again invited: "Come near the fire, won't you? and when you are warm tell me what I can do for you." "It's the storm," murmured the man, and a half-human look came across his face with his words. "I mean to say, it's this hellish storm that's got in my throat and lungs. I can't speak--it's so warm here. It will be better in a second. No, not near the fire; thanks--chilblains." He looked down at his poor feet. The voice which the storm had beaten and thrashed to painful hoarseness was entirely out of keeping with the man's appearance, and in intonation, accent, and language was a shock to the hearer. "Don't stand back like that--come into the room." Bulstrode wheeled a chair briskly about. "There; sit down and drink this; it's a mild blend." "I'm very wet," said the man. "I'll drip on the rug." "Hang the rug!" The tramp drained the glass given him at one swallow merely; it appeared to clear his throat and release his speech. He gathered his rags together. "I beg pardon for forcing myself on you like this, but I fancy I needn't tell you I'm desperate--desperate!" He held out his hand; it shook like a pale ghost's. "I look it, I'm sure. I haven't eaten a meal or slept in a bed for a fortnight. I've begged work and charity. All day I've been shovelling snow, but I'm too weak to work now."