Fitz submitted, doubtless under a sense of compulsion. My four years' seniority at school had generally enabled me to get my way with him. It was rather painful to witness the effort the unfortunate fellow put forth to pull himself together; and when I measured out a pretty stiff brandy-and-soda his refusal of it was distinctly poignant.
"I oughtn't to have it, old chap," he said, with his wild eyes looking into mine like those of a dumb animal. "It doesn't do, you know."
"Drink it straight off at once," said I, "and do as you are told."
Fitz did so with reluctance. The effect upon him was what I had not foreseen. His haggard wildness yielded quite suddenly to an outburst of tears. He covered his face with his hands and wept in a painfully overwrought manner.
I waited in silence for this outburst to pass.
"I've been scouring the country since nine o'clock last night," he said, "and I feel like going out of my mind."
"What's the trouble, old son?" said I, taking a chair beside him.
"They've got my wife."
"Whom do you mean by 'they'?"
"I can't, I mustn't tell you," said Fitz, excitedly, "but they have got her, and—and I expect she is dead by now."