He paused to stick a cuttlefish between the bars of a cage, and catching sight of the first figure, instantly began to snarl a reproach:
"I might have been in my grave for all you know, Edward Lavendar; except you'd have had to 'give hearty thanks for the good example' of the deceased. What a humbug the burial service is—hey? Same thing for an innocent like me, or for a senior warden. Come in. Simmons! Whiskey"—
He stopped short; William had moved in the shadows. "Why, that's Willy
King," he said; and dropped the cuttlefish. "Something's wrong. Two
black coats at this hour of the day mean something. Well! Out with it!
What's happened?"
"Benjamin," said Dr. Lavendar, coming into the room, "Sam's Sam—"
"Keep Willy King out!" commanded the very old man in a high, peevish voice. "I'm not going to die of it. He's—killed himself? Well; it's my fault. I angered him," He took up his hat, clutching the brim with shaking hands and pulling it fiercely down over his eyes. "Keep Willy off! I'm not—I'm not—"
Simmons caught him as he lurched back into a chair, and Dr. Lavendar bent over him, his old face moving with tears.
"It was an accident, Benjamin, either of the body or the soul—it doesn't matter which."
William King, standing behind the chair that held the forlorn and quivering heap, ventured gently: "Samuel says that Sam was cleaning his pistol, and—"
But Dr. Lavendar held up his hand and William was silent.
"Hold your tongue;" said Benjamin Wright. "Lavendar knows I don't like lies. Yes; my fault. I've done it again. Second time. Second time. Simmons! Get these—gentlemen some—whiskey."