But the weariest game in all the world
Is waiting for dead men’s shoes.
It was about a week later that Edward Mottisfont rang David Blake up on the telephone and begged him in agitated accents, to come to Mr. Mottisfont without delay.
“It’s another attack—a very bad one,” said Edward in the hall. His voice shook a little, and he seemed very nervous. David thought it was certainly a bad attack. He also thought it a strange one. The old man was in great pain, and very ill. Elizabeth Chantrey was in the room, but after a glance at his patient, David sent her away. As she went she made a movement to take up an empty cup which stood on the small table beside the bed, and old Mr. Edward Mottisfont fairly snapped at her.
“Leave it, will you—I’ve stopped Edward taking it twice. Leave it, I say!”
Elizabeth went out without a word, and Mr. Mottisfont caught David’s wrist in a shaky grip.
“D’ you know why I wouldn’t let her take that cup? D’ you know why?”
“No, sir——”
Old Mr. Mottisfont’s voice dropped to a thread. He was panting a little.
“I was all right till I drank that damned tea, David,” he said, “and Edward brought it to me—Edward——”