“How is the lady now?” he asked curtly.
“Sleeping at last, but she’s restless. I doubt she won’t sleep long.” Her pale eyes avoided his. “Though I don’t know what you may be after, Mr. Granton,” the hard mouth said slowly, “I take the liberty of warning you not to carry it too far—”
“Mind your own business, and clear out. Send your man to me.”
“No offence intended, but I doubt she hasn’t eaten a bite to-day,” said the woman, and went out. Her humanity was not equal to the grand wages she was getting.
Symington sighed, took a drink and muttered: “Poor Kitty! Perhaps we may get it over to-night, after all.”
A huge lout of a man, with a red beard and a bald head, shuffled in.
“Well, how is he now?”
“Not much change. Looking peaked a bit. But he made a joke when he said good night. Expect he’ll feel a goodish bit worse by to-morrow.”
Symington considered. “When you go downstairs,” he said at last, “you will take away the water and give him none to-morrow.”
“What? No water, Mr. Granton?”