"With luck we may get off to-morrow about midnight."
He stepped back, shook himself like a big dog, scattering the water off his oilskins in a shower upon the slippery deck. Then he came inside the cabin and stood near Richard. His expression was very kindly, tender almost.
"You must excuse me, sir," he said. "I know it doesn't come within my province to give you advice. But you do look pretty ill, Sir Richard. Every one's remarking that. And you are ill, sir—you know it, and I know it, and Mr. Powell here knows it. You ought to see a doctor, sir—and if you'll pardon plain language, this beastly cess-pit of a harbour is not a fit place for you to sleep in."
And poor Dickie, after an instant of sharp annoyance, touched by the man's honest humanity smiled upon him—a smile of utter weariness, utter homelessness.
"Perfectly true. Get me out to sea then, Vanstone. I shall be better there than anywhere else," he said.
Whereupon the kindly sailor-man turned away, swearing gently into his trim, black beard.
But the valet remained, impassive in manner, actively anxious at heart.
"Have you any orders for the carriage, sir?" he asked. "Garçia drove me down. I told him to wait until I had inquired."
Richard was long in replying. His brain was all confused and clouded again, while again he heard the voice of the famous soprano—"Ernani, Ernani, involami."
"Yes," he said at last. "Tell Garçia to be here in good time to drive me to the San Carlo. I have an appointment at the opera to-night."