Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable than ever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy, pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all a mystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man of the same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of life until he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving (as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gave his gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walked leisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usual length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.
"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd story again."
"If you please, sir."
"You told me when you were so good as to step round here last night--"
"For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"

Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight, enjoys his wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silence and seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. He sits, and drinks, and ponders on all the mysteries he knows, associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blank shut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two for himself, and his family history, and his money, and his will - all a mystery to everyone.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone tonight. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.
"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "go over this odd story again."
"I remembered, sir, that you had taken an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might - just - wish-"
