When the afternoon passed without the
usual visit, he grew uneasy; he was incapable of attending to
matters of business, and walked up and down his office with
impatient step. Such a mood was extraordinary in Mr. Woodstock; he
had often waxed restive in this or that business difficulty; was,
indeed, anything but remarkable for equanimity under trial; but his
state of mind was quite different at present, and exhibited itself
in entirely different ways. He neither swore nor looked black; his
was the anxiety of a man who has some grave interest at stake
wherein the better part of his nature is concerned.
At five o'clock he took a cab, and went off to Waymark's lodgings in
Chelsea. Here he learned that Waymark had left home at the usual
time, and had not yet returned. Just as he was speaking with the
landlady at the door, another gentleman came up on the same errand.
Mr. Woodstock remembered Julian Casti, and held out his hand to him.
Casti looked ill; his handsome features had wasted, and his fair
complexion was turned to a dull, unhealthy, yellowish hue. It was a
comparatively warm day for the season, but his thin frame was
closely muffled up, and still he seemed to be shrinking under the
air.
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