“Antony!” she sobbed.
“Don’t be a fool, Lu,” he repeated contemptuously, and gulped down the drink, and refilled the glass with raw whiskey right up to the brim. “It’s because I am so unnaturally sober that my brain won’t work!” He drank down the raw whiskey. “God!” he cried, as he set the glass down. “Now ring that bell!” he commanded. Alcohol was doing its medicinal work—this once at least. Antony Crespin was his own man again. Valor raced through his veins. Resource tingled in nerves and brain. His eyes glittered red. Command rang in his voice. “Ring that bell, I say.”
His wife moved to the table, and obeyed him.
Dr. Traherne stood silent, looking on approvingly, admiringly too—at Crespin. And also he was diagnosing—the friend lost in the physician. Crespin had been wise in his cups for once, he thought.
“You do the talking, Traherne,” Major Crespin commanded when his wife had rung. “That fellow’s damned insolence gets on my nerves.”
“All right,” Traherne replied quietly, taking the chair by the writing-table that Mrs. Crespin had left.
Lucilla turned away and leaned her head on the mantel wearily.
“Look out—” Crespin warned them, and strolled towards the window—a red gleam in his eyes, as Watkins came in.
“You rang, sir?” Watkins said impartially to the two men; standing at the door.
“Yes, Watkins,” Dr. Traherne answered him; “we want a few words with you. Do you mind coming over here? We don’t want to speak loud.”