Occasionally, as part of the fun, I would do a bit of a turn myself by way of reviving old memories of the Cock and Spur and my Athenaeum days in Boston.
It was on one of these festive occasions--not unlike, my readers may recall, my famous translation from college during my banquet at the Cambridge Tavern--that Fate struck me my first severe blow.
My guests were still sitting at table while one of the ladies executed a fantastic dance amid the wine-glasses, when my butler touched me upon the arm and whispered that Mr.Gottlieb was outside and desired to see me on urgent business.

Excusing myself, I hurried out, greeting my partner rather impatiently, as I disliked to be interrupted by business details in my hours of relaxation; but one sight of his weazened little hawk face sufficed to tell me that no trifling matter was at stake.

He was in his day clothes, which were even more than ordinarily dishevelled, and his face, usually pale, was chalklike.
"Quibble," he cried in a rasping voice as soon as my man had gone, "our luck's turned! That woman has tricked us.

She and Bunce went down to Crookshank's office and, under the pretext of looking for some deed or release, went through his papers and turned up some letters from Hawkins in regard to the original divorce proceedings.
They've got one in which he admits being served by Bunce in the Astor House and asks Crookshank to appear for him.

They've got another, written after Dillingham had fixed him, telling Crookshank to put in no defence.