Fettes was far through his third tumbler, stupidly fuddled, now nodding
over, now staring mazily around him; but at the last word he seemed to
awaken, and repeated the name "Macfarlane" twice, quietly enough the
first time, but with sudden emotion at the second. "Yes," said the landlord, "that's his name, Doctor Wolfe Macfarlane." Fettes became instantly sober; his eyes awoke, his voice became clear,
loud, and steady, his language forcible and earnest. We were all
startled by the transformation, as if a man had risen from the dead. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I am afraid I have not been paying much
attention to your talk. Who is this Wolfe Macfarlane?" And then, when he
had heard the landlord out, "It cannot be, it cannot be," he added; "and
yet I would like well to see him face to face." "Do you know him, Doctor?" asked the undertaker, with a gasp. "God forbid!" was the reply. "And yet the name is a strange one; it were
too much to fancy two. Tell me, landlord, is he old?" "Well," said the host, "he's not a young man, to be sure, and his hair
is white; but he looks younger than you." "He is older, though; years older. But," with a slap upon the table,
"it's the rum you see in my face--rum and sin. This man, perhaps, may
have an easy conscience and a good digestion. Conscience! Hear me
speak. You would think I was some good, old, decent Christian, would
you not? But no, not I; I never canted. Voltaire might have canted if
he'd stood in my shoes; but the brains"--with a rattling fillip on his
bald head--"the brains were clear and active, and I saw and made no
deductions." "If you know this doctor," I ventured to remark, after a somewhat awful
pause, "I should gather that you do not share the landlord's good
opinion." Fettes paid no regard to me. "Yes," he said, with sudden decision, "I must see him face to face." There was another pause, and then a door was closed rather sharply on
the first floor, and a step was heard upon the stair. "That's the doctor," cried the landlord. "Look sharp, and you can catch
him." It was but 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 from you is
lying where I cast it in the rain." Dr. Macfarlane had talked himself into some measure of superiority and
confidence, but the uncommon energy of this refusal cast him back into
his first confusion. A horrible, ugly look came and went across his almost venerable
countenance. "My dear fellow," he said, "be it as you please; my last
thought is to offend you. I would intrude on none. I will leave you my
address, however--"

"I do not wish it--I do not wish to know the roof that shelters you,"
interrupted the other. "I heard your name; I feared it might be you; I
wished to know if, after all, there were a God; I know now that there is
none. Begone!" He still stood in the middle of the rug, between the stair and doorway;
and the great London physician, in order to escape, would be forced to
step to one side. It was plain that he hesitated before the thought of
this humiliation. White as he was, there was a dangerous glitter in his
spectacles; but while he still paused uncertain, he became aware that
the driver of his fly was peering in from the street at this unusual
scene and caught a glimpse at the same time of our little body from the
parlour, huddled by the corner of the bar. The presence of so many
witnesses decided him at once to flee. He crouched together, brushing on
the wainscot, and made a dart like a serpent, striking for the door. But
his tribulation was not entirely at an end, for even as he was passing
Fettes clutched him by the arm and these words came in a whisper, and
yet painfully distinct, "Have you seen it again?" The great rich London doctor cried out aloud with a sharp, throttling
cry; he dashed his questioner across the open space, and, with his hands
over his head, fled out of the door like a detected thief. Before it had
occurred to one of us to make a movement the fly was already rattling
toward the station. The scene was over like a dream, but the dream had
left proofs and traces of its passage. Next day the servant found the
fine gold spectacles broken on the threshold, and that very night we
were all standing breathless by the bar-room window, and Fettes at our
side, sober, pale, and resolute in look. "God protect us, Mr. Fettes!" said the landlord, coming first into
possession of his customary senses. "What in the universe is all this? These are strange things you have been saying." Fettes turned toward us; he looked us each in succession in the face. "See if you can hold your tongues," said he.