“Sit down,” said Essex quietly; “I’m not going to touch you. I’m going to get some whisky. That’ll tone you up a bit. The bronchitis has taken it out of you more than you think.”
He went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle and glasses. Pouring some whisky into one, he pushed it toward Harney.
“There, that’ll brace you up. You’ll feel more yourself in a minute.”
He diluted his own with water and only touched the glass’s rim to his lips. His eyes, glistening and intent, were on the drunkard’s now darkly flushing face. The glass rattled against the table as Harney set it down.
“That puts mettle into me again. Makes me feel like the old times before the malaria got into my bones. Malaria was my ruin. Got it in the Sierra mining. People think it’s drink that done it, but it’s malaria.”
“That was when you knew Moreau? What sort of man was he?”
“Poor sort; not any grit. Had a good claim up there beyond Placerville, he and I. Took out’s much as eight thousand in that first summer. Moreau stayed by it, but I quit. Both had our reasons.”
“And Miss Moreau, you say, is not Dan Moreau’s daughter. Is she a step-daughter?”
“Well—in a sort of a way you might say so. Anyway, she ain’t got no legal right to that name.”
“I didn’t know the mother was a widow when she married Moreau?”