“Are you sure it was he?”
“Sure—sure! I sh’d think so. He’s give me good reason, c-curse ’im!”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes—yes.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Not much said—not much. It’s what he’s—what he’s done.”
“What?”
“Devil of a lot—yes—yes. Never mind now. Let’s go to bed, Frank. Tell you all ’bout in the morning. Game’s up. ’Tis by J-Jupiter!”
As if incapable of continuing the dialogue—much less of undressing himself—Mr Swinton staggered across to the bed; and, sinking down upon it, was soon snoring and asleep.
It might seem strange that the servant should lie down beside him, which he did. Not after knowing that the little valet was his wife! It was the amiable “Fan” who thus shared the couch of her inebriate husband.