About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself.

The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark.

Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory.

He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.
He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.
"I was waiting for you," said Gregory.

"Might I have a moment's conversation ?" "Certainly.