“Even the meanest of God’s creatures may have its uses,” Wendover quoted, sarcastically.
Sir Clinton’s temporary cheerfulness seemed to have passed away.
“That’s a true word spoken in jest, no doubt. You’re perhaps right after all. We may find a use for even friend Ernest before we’re done. But on the face of it, it doesn’t look probable, does it?”
When they reached Whistlefield they were shown at once into the study where they found Ernest in a state of nervous collapse. A syphon and a decanter stood on a tray at his elbow; and the moving surface of the whisky showed that he had just finished pouring out a drink. As they came in, he poured some more liquor into his empty tumbler.
“I think I’d leave it at that, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton suggested, coolly. “We’d better not run any risk of your memory getting confused.”
Ernest took his hand away from the tumbler obediently. Wendover could see that he was trembling, and he seemed to be in a condition bordering on panic.
“Now, let’s have the story as briefly as possible, if you please,” Sir Clinton requested.
Ernest looked helplessly round the room for a moment.
“I can hardly believe I’m safe,” he explained. “I’ve had such a time, such a time. Dreadful!”
“Yes, tell us about it.”