A FEARFUL DISCOVERY.
A few days after this Hawbury was in his room, when Dacres entered.
"Hallo, old man, what's up now? How goes the war?" said Hawbury. "But what the mischief's the matter? You look cut up. Your brow is sad; your eyes beneath flash like a falchion from its sheath. What's happened? You look half snubbed, and half desperate."
Dacres said not a word, but flung himself into a chair with a look that suited Hawbury's description of him quite accurately. His brows lowered into a heavy frown, his lips were compressed, and his breath came quick and hard through his inflated nostrils. He sat thus for some time without taking any notice whatever of his friend, and at length lighted a cigar, which he smoked, as he often did when excited, in great voluminous puffs. Hawbury said nothing, but after one or two quick glances at his friend, rang a bell and ordered some "Bass."
"Here, old fellow," said he, drawing the attention of Dacres to the refreshing draught. "Take some—'Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget thy lost Lenore.'"
Dacres at this gave a heavy sigh that sounded like a groan, and swallowed several tumblers in quick succession.
"Hawbury!" said he at length, in a half-stifled voice.
"Well, old man?"
"I've had a blow to-day full on the breast that fairly staggered me."
"By Jove!"