“Well, sir, well. And you are prepared, I presume, to take up the thread where you dropped it?”
“Oh! I cry you mercy, Captain Luvaine. What would you have, sir? The night is far advanced; I have had an exhausting experience of travel. On my honour, I must recuperate for the next move.”
“Mr. Tuke, do you mean to tell me, with all deliberateness, that you purpose resting upon my sickness—upon my agony of suspense, sir, counting the question of my reason as nothing compared with your little bodily discomfort?”
“If you will put it crudely, sir; why, so must I. I refuse to act further until I have rested; and you will do well to school your reason into a little consideration for others.”
“You must take note that this is a matter affecting my very last interests.”
“As the necessity for sleep affects mine. Restored, I shall be of infinitely more service to you in that respect than I could possibly be now.”
The soldier bowed. So much of the discipline of his profession remained to him. But it seemed almost a murderous demon that dictated the courtesy. He walked towards the door, and turned glowering.
“I must not gainsay you,” he said; “but—but—may God never curse you with the torment to which you are wantonly condemning me.”
He could not altogether so control his feelings as to refrain from slamming the door to behind him as he went out. The clap shook the hall, and brought Sir David to his feet with a stare and a cry.
“Hallo!” he exclaimed, his headpiece fuddled out of all comprehension. “Where—where ha’ you been, you inhospitalable scamp?”