"The devil's got into Burrill," replied Frank, bending forward to knock the ashes from his black segar; "and into the rest of the family too, I should say; Evan has been bad enough any time within the memory of man, but look at him now. Why, he has not been sober for ten days."
"Well, he is sober this morning."
"Really, have you seen him?"
"Yes. I went to his room to ask him some questions about Burrill. I found him white as a cloth, and quite as limp; he had overdone himself at his last carouse; is as sick as a dog, and on the verge of delirium tremens if a man ever was. He won't get out of his bed for a few days, if I am a judge; the room was full of medical perfumes, and his mother was trying to induce him to drink some hot coffee."
"And Burrill?"
"He knew nothing of him, and recommended me to look after my own vermin."
"He's a sharp tongued cur," said Frank, with a short laugh.
"Next, I went to Sybil's rooms; she was sitting over a roasting fire, wrapped in a shawl, and shivering from head to foot; she almost shrieked at the mention of Burrill's name; Sybil looks bad, very bad. When we get these other matters safely settled, we must do something for the girl."
"And that means——"
"That we must master Burrill. We will soon be in a position to do it, I hope."