“As subtle as he is strong.”
She gave a little gasp, as if she had caught herself in an error.
“I didn’t know that. I didn’t realize—I must be going in. You’ll excuse me. Good night, Mr. Pitt. Pleasant dreams.”
Pleasant dreams! It was past one in the morning before I ceased my troubled pacing of the Wanderer’s promenade, and such sleep as weariness finally brought to me was beset by a jumble of nightmares, dominated by Brack’s eyes and smile.
XIX
After breakfast next morning I went to see Chanler. He was sitting up in bed, and he had changed greatly overnight. His face was puffed and gray-looking, and the swollen eyelids were parted only enough to disclose a slit of blood-shot eyes. Dr. Olson was with him, whisky-glass in hand, but he was watching Chanler shrewdly.
“I’ve got him filled up with bromides,” whispered the doctor to me. “If we can’t get him to sleep he’ll have the D. T.’s.”
Chanler slowly turned his head toward me and endeavored to open his eyes wide. The effort was too much for him and his face became distorted with a drunken smile.
“There he is—li’l Gardy, the foe of rum,” he murmured sleepily. “Model young man. Gardy, know wha’ I’d like see? Like see you stewed to zenith. Like see you spiff-iflicated. Oh, wha’ ’n ez’bition you’d be! Horr’ble, horr’ble!” He shook his head slowly. “Nay, nay! Don’ catch Gardy spiff-iflicated. Don’ catch Gardy putting things in’s brain to steal his mouth away, do they, Gard’? Noshirr-rr! Noshir-r! Let George do ’t, eh, Gardy? Let George—let——”
His head fell forward. With an effort he raised it, but his eyes were closed.