“I say,” he said, in his hollow voice—“I say, get up. They have found him—and we are wanted. We have to go and identify him—and all that.”
While Cornish was dressing, Roden sat heavily down on a chair near the window.
“Hope you'll stick by me,” he said, and, pausing, stretched out his hand to the washing-stand to pour himself out a glass of water—“I hope you'll stick by me. I'm so confoundedly shaky. Don't know what it is—look at my hand.” He held out his hand, which shook like a drunkard's.
“That is only nerves,” said Cornish, who was ever optimistic and cheerful. He was too wise to weigh carefully his reasons for looking at the best side of events. “That is nothing. You have not slept, I expect.”
“No; I've been thinking. I say, Cornish—you must stick by me—I have been thinking. What am I to do with the malgamiters? I cannot manage the devils as Von Holzen did. I'm—I'm a bit afraid of them, Cornish.”
“Oh, that will be all right. Why, we have Wade, and can send for White if we want him. Do not worry yourself about that. What you want is breakfast. Have you had any?”
“No. I left the house before Dorothy was awake or the servants were down. She knows nothing. Dorothy and I have not hit it off lately.”
Cornish made no answer. He was ringing the bell, and ordered coffee when the waiter came.
“Haven't met any incident in life yet,” he said cheerfully, “that seemed to justify missing out meals.”
The incident that awaited them was not, however, a pleasant one, though the magistrate in attendance afforded a courteous assistance in the observance of necessary formalities. Both men made a deposition before him.