“He has not told me everything, Meekins,—at least, not so fully and clearly as I wish. I want you, therefore, to go over it all again for me, omitting nothing that was said on either side.”
“Ay,” said the prisoner, dryly, “I see. Now, what did Mr. Dalton say to you? I 'm curious to know; I 'd like to hear how he spoke of me.”
“As of one who was well disposed to serve him, Meekins,” said Grounsell, hesitatingly, and in some confusion.
“Yes, to be sure,” said the fellow, with a keen glance beneath his gathering brows. “And he told you, too, that we parted good friends,—at least, as much so as a poor man like myself could be to a born gentleman like him.”
“That he did,” cried Grounsell, eagerly; “and young Mr. Dalton is not the man to think the worse of your friendship because you are not his equal in rank.”
“I see,—I believe I see it all,” said Meekins, with the same sententious slowness as before. “Now look, doctor,” added he, fixing a cold and steady stare on the other's features, “it is late in the night,—not far from twelve o'clock,—and I ask you, would n't it be better for you to be asleep in your bed, and leave me to rest quietly in mine, rather than be fencing—ay, fencing here—with one another, trying who is the deepest? Just answer me that, sir.”
“You want to offend me,” said Grounsell, rising.
“No, sir; but it would be offending yourself to suppose that it was worth your while to deceive the like of me,—a poor, helpless man, without a friend in the world.”
“I own I don't understand you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, reseating himself.
“There's nothing so easy, sir, if you want to do it If Mr. Dalton told you what passed between us to-night, you know what advice you gave him; and if he did not tell you, faix! neither will I—that's all. He knows what I have in my power. He was fool enough not to take me at my word. Maybe I would n't be in the same mind again.”