Glyddyr took a good sip of his whisky and water, and was in the act of rising when the doctor promptly clapped his hands on his shoulders, and pressed him back.
“No, no, my dear sir, sit still. I don’t suppose I shall be many minutes. I have a patient there who thinks he is very bad. I want to finish my cigar with you.”
He hurried out, leaving Glyddyr leaning back smoking; but, as soon as he was alone, he sat up and his eyes began to search the three rows of bottles before him, and to read the Latin inscriptions upon the drawers beneath, one of which was pulled half out.
He sat forward listening intently to the retreating step of the doctor, after which all was still as death, save the regular beat of a timepiece on the mantelpiece.
Then he threw himself back frowning, and took out his handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, though the room was perfectly cool, and the window open.
“It’s madness,” he muttered; “impossible!”
He stretched out his hand, seized his glass, and gulped its contents down quickly, then, taking the decanter, poured out some more and drank that.
“Dutch courage,” he muttered, setting down the glass. “No spirit. But it’s impossible,” he said again, and he laid down his cigar, listening intently.
And yet it seemed so easy, for there before him, in the upper row, with its black letters on a gold ground, was the bottle that would do the work.
“No, no,” he said, in a husky whisper; but he rose all the same, and stood listening in the midst of a silence that seemed death-like.