“You may, mate, but it is not certain. You are taking the dose hard,” said Scrivener.
“I want you to do something for me, Scrivener.”
“Anything,” replied the man, falling on his knees.
“Fetch my wife here.”
“Your wife!” said Simpkins suddenly. “Dare you see her, mate?”
“I dare anything. I have one last—desperate wish; it must be granted. I must see my wife.”
“But if she is in Yorkshire, Silver?” queried Scrivener.
“I have a premonition that she is in London,” replied Rowton. His words came more and more slowly, with longer and longer gasps between. “Scrivener—you know Rowton Heights? Wire there at once—get Mrs. Rowton’s address in London, and then fetch her here. You don’t object, do you? If so, at any cost, I’ll get back to my hotel.”
“I’ll do what you wish,” said Scrivener.
“It seems reasonable enough,” echoed Simpkins.