Fortunately, his first movement was one that diverted my thoughts. For as he opened his eyes he stretched out his hands to the brandy bottle. It was near to my elbow, however, on the mantelpiece, and I refilled my own glass. It was, I think, the sound of the liquor tinkling into the glass more than the words I spoke to him which made Rookley open his eyes. He blinked at me for a moment.
"You?" said he, but blankly with the stupor of his sleep still heavy upon him.
"Yes!" said I, drinking the brandy.
He followed the glass to my lips and woke to the possession of some part of his senses.
"I had expected you before," says he, and sits clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowing, as though his throat was parched.
"So I believe," I returned. "You had even gone so far as to prepare for me a fitting welcome."
He was by this time wide awake. He picked up his peruke, clapped it on his head, and stood up in his stocking feet.
"Your servants, sir," says he with inimitable assurance, "will always honour their master with a fitting welcome, so long as I am steward, on whatever misfortunes he may have declined."
"I meant," said I, "a welcome not so much fitting my mastership as that honesty of yours, Mr. Rookley, which my Lord Derwentwater tells me is all on the outside."
I bent forward, keeping my eyes upon his face. But not a muscle jerked in it.