Glides on without a pain.
Clank—clank—clank.”
Learmont stepped into the dingy, dark passage, and making his way up to the bar, he, in an assumed voice, said,—
“A cup of your best wine, landlord.”
The wine was placed before him, and then he said in a careless tone,—
“Has Master Britton risen yet?”
“Oh, dear, no, your worship,” said the landlord. “He won’t be up for a good hour or two yet. He went out in his chair last evening, and came home all over bruises from a tumble. Oh, such a man as he is—but perhaps your worship knows him?”
“No, but I have heard of him.”
“Ah, all Westminster has heard of him. He drinks hugely. He is fast asleep now in his attic. He won’t be in any other room, because he says he should have to murder somebody for treading heavy over his head, if he was lower down in the house. A strange fancy, your worship—a strange fancy.”
“Indeed it is.”