His new sheaf of cheques were quickly turned into counters; and, after various fluctuations, these counters followed the rest, and in the grey morning he left that haunt jaded and savage, with just fifteen pounds in his pocket, the wreck of the large sum which he had borrowed to restore his fortunes.
It needs some little time to enable a man, who has sustained such a shock as Richard Arden had, to collect his thoughts and define the magnitude of his calamity. He let himself in by a latch-key: the grey light was streaming through the shutters, and turning the chintz pattern of his window-curtains here and there, in streaks, into transparencies. He went into his room and swallowed nearly a tumbler of brandy, then threw off his clothes, drank some more, and fell into a flushed stupor, rather than a sleep, and lay for hours as still as any dead man on the field of battle.
Some four hours of this lethargy, and he became conscious, at intervals, of a sound of footsteps in his room. The shutters were still closed. He thought he heard a voice say, “Master Richard!” but he was too drowsy, still, to rouse himself.
At length a hand was laid upon him, and a voice that was familiar to his ear repeated twice over, more urgently, “Master Richard! Master Richard!” He was now awake: very dimly, by his bedside, he saw a figure standing. Again he heard the same words, and wondered, for a few seconds, where he was.
“That's Crozier talking,” said Richard.
“Yes, Sir,” said Crozier, in a low tone; “I'm here half-an-hour, Sir, waiting till you should wake.”
“Let in some light; I can't see you.”
Crozier opened half the window-shutter, and drew the curtain.
“Are ye ailin', Master Richard—are ye bad, Sir?”
“Ailing—yes, I'm bad enough, as you say—I'm miserable. I don't know where to turn or what to do. Hold my coat while I count what's in the pocket. If my father, the old scoundrel——”