“I say, you had better have a glass of grog, and then go to bed. I’ll stop with you if you like.”
“Here? No, no; come along. It must be getting late.”
He made for the door and opened it, signed to Guest to come, and stood waiting.
“All right; but don’t leave that candle burning, man. You seem determined to burn down this place.”
Stratton uttered a curious little laugh, and hastily crossed the room to the mantelpiece, while Guest stood holding the door open, so as to admit a little light.
The next minute they were on the landing, and Stratton, with trembling fingers, carefully locked the door.
“Now,” said Guest, “about poor old Brettison? What do you say? Shall we give notice to the police?”
“No, no,” cried Stratton angrily. “It is absurd! He will come back some day. See me home, please, old fellow. My head—all confused and strange. I want to get back as soon as I can.”
Guest took his arm to the entrance of the inn, called a cab, and did not leave him till he was safe in his rooms at Sarum Street, after which the young barrister returned to his own chambers to think over the events of the evening in company with a pipe.
“Takes all the conceit out of a fellow,” he mused, “to find what a lot of his old childish dread remains when he has grown up. Why, I felt then—Ugh! I’m ashamed to think of it all. Poor old Stratton! he doesn’t know what he’s about half his time. I believe he has got what the doctors call softening of the brain. Strikes me, after to-night’s work,” he added thoughtfully, “that I must have got it, too.”