"Aye," with great weariness.
"You wrote it? 'Foregad, Charles, I should never have believed that."
"But I never—I never wrote those lines."
"What lines?" Mr. Ripple, having admitted much, would admit no more.
"About Miss Courteen and the Maze, and the whole d——d, d——d, d—— d——"
No substantive was strong enough to suit the emphatick epithets thrice repeated.
"And who, may I ask, was the author of those graceful stanzas?"
"I know, but—but, Ripple—I owed the blackguard money—the Chinese Masquerade—I knew his name all the while—if harm comes of this affair, 'tis my fault—but by G——, I'll call him out, yes, I'll call him out, I'll call him out, I'll call him out, and I'll——"
"Go to bed," said Mr. Ripple peremptorily.
"What d'ye mean?"