“How terrible!” he murmured at last. “Poor girl! What a shock!”
“Yes; enough to give her brain fever,” said the Doctor, speaking quickly. “The wretched, cackling fools.”
“Terrible! terrible!” muttered Glyddyr. Then, after a pause, as he took a turn up and down the Doctor’s little surgery, as if it were his own cabin, he passed his tongue over his dry lips, and turned quickly to the Doctor, who was watching him curiously. “Here, I say: I’m completely knocked over. For heaven’s sake give me a dose.”
“Yes, of course.”
“No, no, not that cursed stuff,” cried Glyddyr, as he saw the Doctor’s hand raised toward the ammonia bottle. “Brandy—whisky, for goodness’ sake!”
Asher gave him a quick look, then took his key, and, opening a cellaret, poured a goodly dram of brandy into a glass, and placed it on the table.
“There’s water in that bottle,” he said.
Glyddyr made an impatient gesture, and tossed off the raw spirit.
“Hah!” he cried, setting down the glass, “I can talk now. What—what do you think of this report?”
“Oh, all madness, of course,” cried the Doctor hastily.