“Let us go on to the verandah,” said Burgess. “It's cooler than in the house.”
So they went on to the verandah, and looked down upon the lights of the prison, and listened to the sea lapping the shore. The Reverend Mr. North, in this cool atmosphere, seemed to recover himself, and conversation progressed with some sprightliness.
By and by, a short figure, smoking a cheroot, came up out of the dark, and proved to be Dr. Macklewain, who had been prevented from attending the dinner by reason of an accident to a constable at Norfolk Bay, which had claimed his professional attention.
“Well, how's Forrest?” cried Burgess. “Mr. Meekin—Dr. Macklewain.”
“Dead,” said Dr. Macklewain. “Delighted to see you, Mr. Meekin.”
“Confound it—another of my best men,” grumbled Burgess. “Macklewain, have a glass of wine.” But Macklewain was tired, and wanted to get home.
“I must also be thinking of repose,” said Meekin; “the journey—though most enjoyable—has fatigued me.”
“Come on, then,” said North. “Our roads lie together, doctor.”
“You won't have a nip of brandy before you start?” asked Burgess.
“No? Then I shall send round for you in the morning, Mr. Meekin. Good night. Macklewain, I want to speak with you a moment.”