To make sure against surprise, Mr Swinton had assumed this interesting attitude; and for reasons unknown even to his own valet. On the rebolting of the door, he flung off the coverlet, and once more commenced treading the carpet.
“Was it the same waiter?” he asked; “he that brought the letter?”
“It was—James—you know?”
“So much the better. Out with that cork, Fan! I want something to settle my nerves, and make me fit for a good think?”
While the wire was being twisted from the soda bottle, he took hold of a cigar, bit off the end, lit, and commenced smoking it.
He drank the brandy and soda at a single draught; in ten minutes after ordering another dose, and soon again a third.
Several times he re-read Roseveldt’s letter—each time returning it to his pocket, and keeping its contents from Fan.
At intervals he threw himself upon the bed, back downward, the cigar held between his teeth; again to get up and stride around the room with the impatience of a man waiting for some important crisis—doubtful whether it may come.
And thus did Mr Swinton pass the day, eleven long hours of it, inside his sleeping apartment!
Why this manoeuvring, seemingly so eccentric?