"Yours, sir," he said faintly. "And then you came in."
I stared, trying to take it in. Couldn't chirp a word, don't you know, for to think I had taken to sleep-walking—and here!
Jenkins proceeded rapidly: "You was cording a dressing-robe about you as you came in and I see a glimpse of one of your dark suits underneath. And following right behind you was that young Mr. Bi—h'm—pardon, sir, I remember you said I wasn't to mention any one connected with that ni—h'm! You know who I mean, sir?"—he paused anxiously—"Young man, sir—freckled face—and the big lot of"—his spreading fingers curved above his head—"awfully yellow hair—um, you know, sir?"
"Oh, that!" I said with contempt, for I knew he meant that mucker, Scoggins. Then incredulously: "Oh, I say, you don't mean I was talking to him? And asleep?"
Jenkins eyed me reproachfully. "Not asleep, sir," he remonstrated gently.
"But I tell you—"
"Mr. Lightnut, sir, it was the punch!" He shook his head. "If you'll excuse me for mentioning—"
"Oh!" I remarked weakly, falling back upon my pillow. "Jove, Jenkins!" And I just looked at him stupidly—fact!
Jenkins stroked his chin, his eyes fixed somberly above my head. "The demon rum, sir," he said slowly, and using the deep, heavy chest tones like the high-up politicians and expensive lecturers, "is rampant in our fair land—that's what I heard Doctor Splasher remark—and the insid'jus monster is slowly—"
And he went on, but I didn't hear. I was trying to think. So I hadn't been sleep-walking, but had been just plain drunk—and in her home!—so jolly well corked, in fact, I hadn't even a dashed glimmer of memory of it. Had been making a spectacle of myself, going all about the house in the wee what-you-call-'em hours of the night and probably—oh, good heavens, probably singing!