Merrick had a little place at Riverdale, where he went occasionally to
be near the Iron Works, and where he hid his week-ends when the world
was too much with him.
Here, on the following Saturday afternoon I found him awaiting me in a
pleasant setting of books and prints and faded parental furniture.
We dined late, and smoked and talked afterward in his book-walled study
till the terrier on the hearth-rug stood up and yawned for bed. When
we took the hint and moved toward the staircase I felt, not that I
had found the old Merrick again, but that I was on his track, had come
across traces of his passage here and there in the thick jungle that had
grown up between us. But I had a feeling that when I finally came on the
man himself he might be dead....
As we started upstairs he turned back with one of his abrupt shy
movements, and walked into the study.
"Wait a bit!" he called to me.