"His asthma's awf'ly bad; you can hear him wheezin' from the street." He seemed amused.
"There 's no such thing as moral asthma, I suppose ?" said Shelton.
His neighbour dropped his eyeglass.
"Here, take this away; it's overdone;" said he.

"Bring me some lamb." Shelton pushed his table back.
"Good-night," he said; "the Stilton's excellent!" His neighbour raised his brows, and dropped his eyes again upon his plate.
In the hall Shelton went from force of habit to the weighing-scales and took his weight.

"Eleven stone!" he thought; "gone up!" and, clipping a cigar, he sat down in the smoking-room with a novel.
After half an hour he dropped the book.

There seemed something rather fatuous about this story, for though it had a thrilling plot, and was full of well-connected people, it had apparently been contrived to throw no light on anything whatever.

He looked at the author's name; everyone was highly recommending it.