"No, nothing."
He laughed as the man left the room. The old peculiar look had returned to his eyes. After the waiter had brought a bottle of soda-water and a tumbler, he went to his portmanteau, and took therefrom a bottle of whisky. He poured a large portion into the glass, added a little soda-water, and drank greedily.
"I shall suffer the torments of hell if I keep up this," he said; "but I don't care. It's better than eternally brooding. Now I'll set to work on my speech. Oh yes, she'll be sure to get a copy of the Taviton papers, trust a woman for that,—well, she shall see that I can do without her."
His brain was still clear, and he showed no outward signs of drinking. Men had said that his nerves were of steel, and that no spirits ever distilled could affect him. He outlined the address he intended to publish next day, and then sketched the speech he meant to deliver that night. He laughed as his pen moved quickly across the paper.
"They want lies," he laughed, "they want pious platitudes; well, they shall have them, and they shan't suspect that the man who utters them is drunk, and that he's living in hell."
Again and again did he replenish his glass, and as often did he empty it; but it still had no outward effect, save that his eyes became glazed, and dull, and his face assumed an unhealthy look. His hand did not shake, his writing was as clear as ever. His thoughts were expressed in clear and convincing form.
"Yes," he said presently, "that will do. Olive's illness explained in vague terms, but still explicit enough to satisfy every one. I'll arouse their sentimental feelings, and get their votes. Of course the truth will come out presently, but what do I care? Further lies will put everything right. They want lies and they shall have them—the world is built on lies. Then I'll have a fine high-sounding attack on the Government. Oh, I'll play the moral card, showing that their downfall is a judgment from heaven. That'll please the pious Nonconformists. After that I'll finish up with the statement that the battle of this election is a battle between sobriety and drunkenness, between the friends of temperance and the brewers and whisky distillers. I'll have a fine peroration on the evils of drink; I'll picture a hundred and fifty thousand poor devils staggering down to drunkards' graves every year. That'll fetch 'em. Of course I shall be drunk all the time, but what does that matter? In the old days I made my best speeches when I was drunk, and to-night I'll give them a masterpiece. Of course the other side will inquire here about what I've taken to drink, and the waiter will say I've only had a bottle of soda-water!"
He laughed grimly at the thought, then noting the time he went into his bedroom and carefully washed out his glass.
He caught a reflection of himself in a mirror, and the sight gave him a start.
"My God," he said, "I've aged ten years in three days, and my head feels a bit unsteady. I must be careful. It would spoil everything if I were bowled over."