“And be told to mind my own business—eh? Thanks; no.”
He gave the newspaper a vicious shake, and a blow in the middle to double it up for a fresh reading.
“Shall I go up, Gertrude, my dear?” said Mrs Hampton.
“If you would not mind. He may, perhaps, be a little unwell.”
“To be sure, my dear. I’ll go.”
The lawyer’s wife left the room, and without a moment’s hesitation walked along the passage to the study, entered and looked round.
“Yes,” she said to herself, as she took up the whiskey decanter, and held it at arm’s length. “How temperate and self-denying we are. Essence of sick headache, and he has drunk every drop.”
To give colour to Mrs Hampton’s theory, besides the empty condition of the decanter, a peculiar odour of spirits filled the room, causing the old lady’s nostrils to dilate, and the corners of her lips to go down as she hurried out.
“And they hardly ever will open a window,” she muttered, as she stood in the hall, hesitating. “But I said I would go up,” she continued, and ascending quickly she paused before the door of the bedroom she sought.
“Mr Harrington!” she cried, as she gave a few sharp raps with her bony knuckles.