“Is it, I say?” persisted his master.
“Yes, sir—indeed—that is—oh, sir! ’tis an old habit with me. The house is isolated—dark; it lies in the shadow—my God! in what a shadow.”
Mr. Tuke stared in positive amazement. Was the fellow crazed like his sister? A pretty thing if he should discover himself the keeper of a private lunatic asylum.
“Control your emotions,” he said coolly. Whimple’s lips were trembling. The man had permitted himself an outburst of which for hours he would feel the effects.
“I would ask you,” said Mr. Tuke, with an irrepressible little sneer—“if the question is unexciting—when did the present owner of the ‘Dog and Duck’ come into possession?”
“’Twas last Martinmas, sir. The tavern then had been long to let. ’Twas last Martinmas.”
“And whence did he come? Do you know?”
“No, sir. I don’t know.”
“Now, Mr. Whimple, I want to ask you another question. Have you any reason to understand what is implied by the Lake of Wine?”
If he had accused the man of murder, the latter could not have gone a more ghastly white, or have more by his expression associated himself with that he disowned. He even staggered a little where he stood; and it was painful to witness his sick effort at self-control.