I entered. Itwas a very small room, overcrowded with furniture of the style which the Frenchknow as Louis Philippe. There was a large wooden bedstead on which was abillowing red eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe, a round table, a verysmall washstand, and two stuffed chairs covered with red rep. Everything wasdirty and shabby. There was no sign of the abandoned luxury that ColonelMacAndrew had so confidently described. Strickland threw on the floor theclothes that burdened one of the chairs, and I sat down on it.

"What canI do for you?" he asked.

In that smallroom he seemed even bigger than I remembered him. He wore an old Norfolkjacket, and he had not shaved for several days. When last I saw him he wasspruce enough, but he looked ill at ease: now, untidy and ill-kempt, he lookedperfectly at home. I did not know how he would take the remark I had prepared.

我走进去。这是一间很小的房间，几件法国人称之为路易·菲力浦式样的家具把屋子挤得转不过身来。有一张大木床，上面堆放着一床鼓鼓囊囊的大红鸭绒被，一张大衣柜，一张圆桌，一个很小的脸盆架，两把软座椅子，包着红色棱纹平布。没有一件东西不是肮脏、破烂的。麦克安德鲁上校煞有介事地描述的那种浪荡浮华这里连一点儿影子也看不到。思特里克兰德把乱堆在一把椅子上的衣服扔到地上，叫我坐下。

“你来找我有事吗？”他问。

在这间小屋子里他好象比我记忆中的更加高大。他穿着一件诺弗克式的旧上衣，胡须有很多天没有刮了。我上次见到他，他修饰得整齐干净，可是看去却不很自在；现在他邋里邋遢，神态却非常自然。我不知道他听了我准备好的一番话以后会有什么反应。