“Can’t blame him!” Mr. Scunthorpe pleaded. “Wouldn’t have told you, if you hadn’t been so set on seeing him! Felt balls of fire—result, looking as queer as Dick’s hatband, when I saw him!”
“Do you mean that he has been drinking?” demanded Arabella. “What, in heaven’s name, is a ball of fire?”
“Brandy,” said Mr. Scunthorpe. “Devilish bad brandy too. Told him to make Blue Ruin the preferred suit. Safer.”
“Every word you say makes me the more determined to go to him!” declared Arabella.
“Assure you much better to send him some blunt, ma’am!”
“I will take him all I have, but oh, it is so little! I cannot think yet what is to be done!”
Mr. Scunthorpe looked a little thoughtful. “In that case, ma’am, better take you to him. Talking very wildly this morning. No saying what he might do.”
Mr. Scunthorpe pointed significantly to the ceiling. “You don’t think the old lady—?” he suggested delicately.
She shook her head. “Oh, no, no! Impossible!”
She almost ran to the door. “We have not a moment to waste, then!”