Of course there was nothing by that author in the library, and he who had asked the question walked out again.

On the morrow Reardon encountered this same man at a lonely part of the shore; he looked at him, and spoke a word or two of common civility; they got into conversation, with the result that Edwin told the story of yesterday.
The stranger introduced himself as Harold Biffen, an author in a small way, and a teacher whenever he could get pupils; an abusive review had interested him in Reardon's novels, but as yet he knew nothing of them but the names.
Their tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and after returning to London they saw each other frequently.

Biffen was always in dire poverty, and lived in the oddest places; he had seen harder trials than even Reardon himself.

The teaching by which he partly lived was of a kind quite unknown to the respectable tutorial world.

In these days of examinations, numbers of men in a poor position--clerks chiefly--conceive a hope that by 'passing' this, that, or the other formal test they may open for themselves a new career.