"And you told me, as you told me just now, that you had given up drink."
Muzzy's only answer was a frightened, nervous look.
"Look here, old man," exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake sternly, "once and for all--no more of your lies to me. You've been drinking to-night. I saw you hide the bottle as I came into the room."
"There's no concealing anything from you, sir," said Muzzy, in an imploring tone. "I felt lonely, and I did buy a little--not much, upon my soul, sir!--and I tried to keep from it, but wasn't quite able. If Lizzie had been here—"
"Lizzie?"
"The girl in the next room, sir. If she had been at home I shouldn't have tasted a drop. But what can an old man do, in such a place as this, with not a soul to speak to? It is a terrible lonely life, sir, and grows worse and worse as one grows older. If I wasn't afraid, I'd kill myself, but I'm frightened of death--I'm frightened of death."
Muzzy shook and shuddered and raised his feeble hand; had he been alone, with this fear upon him, he would undoubtedly have emptied his bottle of gin in a very short time. Mr. Sheldrake, with an air of thoughtfulness, lit a cigar, and slowly paced the room for a few moments. Pausing before the trembling old man, he said,
"This girl Lizzie, how old is she?"
"About eighteen I should say, sir; but I don't exactly know."
"Where are her parents?"