"I hope not, sir. But you can't ever tell. It comes very sudden. Like a thief in the night, as you may say."
"There! I've broken the stud, but that doesn't matter. His neck's free."
"And his boots are off. There's some one knocking. It's his soup. Would you mind putting his bed-room slippers on, sir? I don't like the cold for his feet."
Prince hurried to the door, whispered a word or two to whoever stood outside, and returned with a tray.
"Another few minutes," said Prince, as he poured the brandy and measured the Worcester sauce into the silver-plated tureen; "another few minutes and he'll be beautiful! Mr. Gilbert responds to anything wonderful quick. I've had him worse than this at half past twelve, and at quarter to one he's been talking like an archdeacon. You persuade him, sir."
"Here's your soup, Gilbert!"
"It's all nothing, there's nobody, all nothing—dark—," the voice was clogged and drowsy—if a blanket could speak, the voice might have been so.
The boy looked hopelessly at the valet.
Prince, an alert little man with a yellow vivacious countenance and heavy, black eye-brows, smiled superior. "When Mr. Gilbert really have copped the brewer—excuse the expression, sir—he generally says a few words without much meaning. Leave him to me if you please."
He wheeled a little table up to the arm-chair, and caught hold of Lothian's shoulder, shaking him.