two steps from the small parlour to the door of the old
George Inn; the wide oak staircase landed almost in the street; there
was room for a Turkey rug and nothing more between the threshold and the
last round of the descent; but this little space was every evening
brilliantly lit up, not only by the light upon the stair and the great
signal lamp below the sign, but by the warm radiance of the bar-room
window. The George thus brightly advertised itself to passers-by in the
cold street. Fettes walked steadily to the spot, and we, who were
hanging behind, beheld the two men meet, as one of them had phrased it,
face to face. Dr. Macfarlane was alert and vigorous. His white hair set
off his pale and placid, although energetic, countenance. He was richly
dressed in the finest of broadcloth and the whitest of linen, with a
great gold watch-chain, and studs and spectacles of the same precious
material. He wore a broad-folded tie, white and speckled with lilac, and
he carried on his arm a comfortable driving-coat of fur. There was no
doubt but he became his years, breathing, as he did, of wealth and
consideration; and it was a surprising contrast to see our parlour
sot--bald, dirty, pimpled, and robed in his old camlet cloak--confront
him at the bottom of the stairs.

"Macfarlane!" he said somewhat loudly, more like a herald than a friend.

The great doctor pulled up short on the fourth step, as though the
familiarity of the address surprised and somewhat shocked his dignity.

"Toddy Macfarlane!" repeated Fettes.

The London man almost staggered. He stared for the swiftest of seconds
at the man before him, glanced behind him with a sort of scare, and then
in a startled whisper, "Fettes!" he said, "you!"

"Ay," said the other, "me! Did you think I was dead too? We are not so
easy shut of our acquaintance."

"Hush, hush!" exclaimed the doctor. "Hush, hush! this meeting is so
unexpected--I can see you are unmanned. I hardly knew you, I confess, at
first; but I am overjoyed--overjoyed to have this opportunity. For the
present it must be how-d'ye-do and good-bye in one, for my fly is
waiting, and I must not fail the train; but you shall--let me
see--yes--you shall give me your address, and you can count on early
news of me. We must do something for you, Fettes. I fear you are out at
elbows; but we must see to that for auld lang syne, as once we sang at
suppers."

"Money!" cried Fettes; "money from you! The money that I had fr