“No,” said the old man bitterly; “it lies far out beyond the end of the pier, buried deep in sand by now.”
Fred Denville stood holding his hands pressed to his head, staring straight before him at the whitewashed wall, while neither spoke.
The silence was broken by the rattling of bolts and the turning of a key, when the gaoler threw open the door, and, without a word, the dragoon walked, or rather reeled, from the cell, as if he had taken strong drink till his senses were nearly gone.
Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.
Blow for Blow.
Fred Denville went straight to Barclay’s, and was admitted, Claire looking at him reproachfully as he threw himself into a chair.
“Oh, Fred!” she cried, “and at such a time!”
“Not been drinking,” he said; “not been drinking. How’s May?”