“No, nothing,” answered Budthorne, and started to pass on.
Suddenly he paused and looked over his shoulder at Aaron, dimly seen by the faint light in the hall.
“Wait,” he said in a low tone. “Come here a moment, Aaron.”
The serving man stepped noiselessly toward him.
“Aaron, I’m not feeling quite right.”
“Ay, sir; I thought ye lookt a wee disturbed. I hope ye are na ill?”
“I’m afraid I shall be unless I can get something to ward off the attack. Do you know if there is whisky or liquor of any sort in the place?”
Aaron seemed alarmed.
“I no hae anything to do wi’ it,” he hastily declared. “The widow alwa’ keeps a wee bit i’ a bottle, but I hae na richt to touch it, sir.”
Eagerly, almost fiercely, Budthorne grasped the little man by his bony wrist.