As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “Wow. “That’s the point. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me.
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