Lastly I turned my attention to restoring him. I found a decanter of brandy and gave him some. The spirit soon began to take effect, and then I lit another cigar and sat down to wait until he should be ready to resume operations.
When at length he sat up he passed his hand across his eyes in dazed bewilderment, as a man will when awakened suddenly from an ugly dream. Then with a start he began to stare about the floor as if looking for the letter, and not seeing it he gave a deep sigh of intense relief, apparently convinced that the thing was no more than a nightmare horror.
“If you’re looking for that letter, I have it,” I said quietly.
With a shuddering start at my voice—I was behind him and he had not seen me—he swung round and stared at me, and began to shake again as his terror returned.
“Here, you’d better have some more of this;” and I poured him out a wine-glassful of brandy and gave it him.
He made one gulp of it and sat leaning forward, trying to think. Presently he scrambled to his feet and sank with a sigh into the chair, leant his arms on the desk and buried his face in his hands.
For some few minutes—five probably—he remained in this attitude of utter dejection. Then he let his hands fall on the desk, turned his head slightly so that he could see exactly where I was, and shifted his position so that the action of his left hand should be hidden by his body.
He was reaching for his revolver of course. A start and a grunt of dismay announced his disappointment.
“If you feel steady enough to shoot, you’re fit to talk,” I said sharply; “and we’ll get this thing over.”
There was a long pause before he spoke. “What is it?” he murmured then, slowly and sullenly.