‘What do you mean then?’
Mr Dolls, collapsing in the drowsiest manner after his late intellectual triumph, replied: ‘Threepenn’orth Rum.’
‘Wind him up again, my dear Mortimer,’ said Wrayburn; ‘wind him up again.’
‘Eugene, Eugene,’ urged Lightwood in a low voice, as he complied, ‘can you stoop to the use of such an instrument as this?’
‘I said,’ was the reply, made with that former gleam of determination, ‘that I would find her out by any means, fair or foul. These are foul, and I’ll take them—if I am not first tempted to break the head of Mr Dolls with the fumigator. Can you get the direction? Do you mean that? Speak! If that’s what you have come for, say how much you want.’
‘Ten shillings—Threepenn’orths Rum,’ said Mr Dolls.
‘You shall have it.’
‘Fifteen shillings—Threepenn’orths Rum,’ said Mr Dolls, making an attempt to stiffen himself.
‘You shall have it. Stop at that. How will you get the direction you talk of?’
‘I am er man,’ said Mr Dolls, with majesty, ‘er get it, sir.’