He started as his master entered the room, and looked up, not very respectfully, but with no unfriendly glance.
"Give me half a tumbler of that brandy, Peterson," said Mr. Marchmont.
The man obeyed; and Paul drained the fiery spirit as if it had been so much water. It was four-and-twenty hours since meat or drink had crossed his dry white lips.
"Why didn't you go away with the rest?" he asked, as he set down the empty glass.
"It's only rats, sir, that run away from a falling house. I stopped, thinkin' you'd be goin' away somewhere, and that you'd want me."
The solid and unvarnished truth of the matter was, that Peterson had taken it for granted that his master had made an excellent purse against this evil day, and would be ready to start for the Continent or America, there to lead a pleasant life upon the proceeds of his iniquity. The valet never imagined his master guilty of such besotted folly as to be _un_prepared for this catastrophe.
"I thought you might still want me, sir," he said; "and wherever you're going, I'm quite ready to go too. You've been a good master to me, sir; and I don't want to leave a good master because things go against him."
Paul Marchmont shook his head, and held out the empty tumbler for his servant to pour more brandy into it.
"I am going away," he said; "but I want no servant where I'm going; but I'm grateful to you for your offer, Peterson. Will you come upstairs with me? I want to pack a few things."
"They're all packed, sir. I knew you'd be leaving, and I've packed everything."