“And Tim, have you got anything to eat? I’m starving.”
“Lashins, me dare boy. Help yerself, for the sorrow a taste would they take in the parlour.”
Tim hurried up, passed through the main room, listened for a moment or two to the murmur of the ladies’ voices in one of the inner places, and then crept out into the veranda, carrying a tray with a metal bottle and two cups, which he made to jingle loudly for the guard to hear.
“No, no, my man,” said the doctor. “It’s very thoughtful of you, but no.—Braine, will you?”
“No, no,” said the Resident; and then he uttered a gasp, for Tim’s lips were at his ear, as he stood behind his seat, and said softly:
“Whisht, Mr Braine, darlin’: don’t make a hurroo. Masther Frank’s come, and he’s below.”
There was a dead silence for a few moments, and then Mr Braine said in a forced voice:
“No, no drink, Tim.—Doctor, come in and give me a cigar.”
He rose, and walked quietly in with the slow careful acting of one who knows that his every action is watched, and, wondering at his friend’s change, the doctor rose and followed.
“Get the cigars and matches,” said Mr Braine, quietly; and then in a quick whisper: “Be firm, man, and act. Light a cigar. Frank has come back.”