Meadows was left alone a few moments with the liquor. A sudden flash came to Meadows' eye, he put his hand hastily to his waistcoat-pocket, and then his eye brightened still more. Yes, it was there, he thought he had had the curiosity to keep it by him. He drew out the white lump Crawley had left on his table that night, and flung it into the glass just as the waiter returned with the sugar.
The waiter took the brandy and water into the coffee-room. Meadows sat still as a mouse, his brain boiling and bubbling—awestruck at what he had done, yet meditating worse.
The next time the waiter came in, “Waiter,” said he, “one glass among two, that is short allowance.”
“Oh! the big one is teetotal,” replied the waiter.
“Mrs. White,” said Meadows, “if you have got a bed for me I'll sleep here, for my nag is tired and the night is darkish.”
“Always a bed for you, Mr. Meadows,” was the gracious reply.
Soon the two friends rang for bed-candles. Robinson staggered with drowsiness. Meadows eyed them from behind a newspaper.
Half an hour later Mr. Meadows went to bed, too—but not to sleep.