“Well, what is there to look at?”
“Wait till we get upstairs and I’ll show you. Had enough of it?”
“Yes,” said Saul, as he curiously scanned the liquid wealth about him, and noticed the various catacomb-like openings in which the rich amber, topaz, and ruby wine was stored.
“Come along, then. Can always give a friend a good glass of wine when he comes.”
Saul followed, noting how silent and tomb-like the place was, and how his footsteps made not the slightest sound in the thick coating of sawdust on the stone floor. Then he remarked how grotesque and strange his companion looked in the darkness, with the light sending his shadow here and there, and a strange sensation attacked Saul Harrington,—the blood flew to his head, and he saw dimly, as through a mist in which various scenes were being enacted, and all connected with the man before him—the man who stood in his way, and without whom he would have been a rich man, perhaps a happy one.
“I could have made her love me,” he muttered. “Eh?”
“I did not speak. Cleared my throat.”
“Oh, I say! what’s the matter? You look ghastly.”
“The darkness and your candle,” said Saul, smiling. “I don’t know, though; I do feel a bit giddy. Is it the smell of the wine?”
“Perhaps. Come and have the whiskey. That will soon set you right.”