"You may sit down, Jenkins, my poor fellow," I said compassionately. I poured out some whisky and gave it to him.
"Yes, yes; I want you to drink that," I insisted as he took it hesitatingly. "You will need it. Drink every drop of it."
And I watched him do it. For somehow the poor devil seemed to be growing paler every minute, and I was afraid the shock of what I was going to say would send him into a swoon.
Jenkins replaced the empty glass with a positively trembling hand. By Jove, his face turned a kind of asparagus yellow.
It alarmed me a little, for I felt apprehensive that perhaps it was time for him to have another spell, you know. Of course, I knew that the devilishly adroit, tactful way I was breaking it to him wouldn't disturb the peace of a baby. Some people would have gone about the thing in some deuced abrupt way, don't you know, and alarmed him. I didn't want to do that—in fact, I took pains to tell him so at the start.
"I don't want to frighten you, my poor fellow," I said, leaning toward him and speaking in a low, earnest voice—just that way, you know—no excitement. "You mustn't let anything I say frighten you badly about yourself."
"No, sir. Thank you, sir." But I could hardly hear him.
I waited a moment, eying him steadily—just doing it all in that calm way, you know—and then:
"You must brace yourself for a great shock, my poor Jenkins," I said soothingly. And then I thought I had best hurry on, for I could tell by the way his eyes rolled and the blue color of his lips that probably I was just in time to head off another attack. And then I told him all.
"And here," I concluded, "are the marks of your fingers under my collar, and the pistol is on top of the bookcase."