A second band was fastened across his legs, and then Mr Hampton turned to the fly-man, who stood smiling at the scene.
“Thankye, sir,” he said, touching his forehead. “Like such a job every day. Lor’,” he said to himself, as he went down the gravel path to the iron gates, “when gents does go it, they does go it and no mistake. That must be champagne, that must; beer and gin wouldn’t never make me like him.”
“Now,” said the doctor, as soon as the fly-man had driven off, “I must have this got from the nearest chemist’s. Under the circumstances, Mr Saul, I must ask you to go and fetch it. They’ll be shut up for the night, but I must have the drugs.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Doctor Lawrence, by ‘under the circumstances.’ If you think I am to blame for my friend, George Harrington’s illness, you are sadly mistaken. It is an attack of Western or swamp fever, I presume.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the doctor drily.
“Bring the whiskey,” shouted the prisoner, in a hoarse yell.
“May I ask you to fetch this medicine, Mr Saul?” said the doctor again.
“Certainly,” replied Saul; and as he took the paper, he gave Gertrude an imploring look, that changed to one of sympathy as he passed out.
The look was lost upon Gertrude, whose eyes were fixed upon the struggling, blaspheming man bound on the couch, and who could only be kept in his place by Mr Hampton sitting upon him. She had been entreated, again and again, to leave the room, but had refused as if determined to see all.
“Nasty fit,” said the doctor coolly, as he gave the lawyer a peculiar look.