As he draws near the door of the tower-room he carries the decanter of brandy in one hand, a lighted candle in the other. When only a few feet separate him from the door he pauses suddenly, and looks earnestly forward. There are two keys for that door, one is on his ring, the other is in the possession of his wife. He holds the lamp high above his head, and listens intently. Yes; there is someone inside.
While he waits he hears a lock shot. Presently the door opens, and with a cry of surprise and fear his wife confronts him.
"Bee," he says, without allowing the smile to relax, "is this you? I thought you were gone to bed."
"I went to my room," says the unhappy woman, trembling and looking down, "but I could not sleep. I was very nervous and—and, Wat, I thought a glass of port might do me good."
"Of course it will. Of course it will," he says, in a soft voice. "I was just going to put this in the cupboard." He holds up the decanter.
"What is that?" she asks, in a voice full of uneasiness and fear.
"Only a little brandy. It's not a rattlesnake or a petard that you need be afraid of, Bee," he replies, in a bantering tone.
"No, no, Wat," she cries, drawing back a pace and holding up her hands as though she saw some fearful object in her way. "We don't want any brandy here. Indeed we don't."
"What nonsense!" he laughs. "But, seriously, Bee, you know we must have some brandy here. Suppose one of the servants, or any chance caller were to become suddenly faint, what could you do without brandy?"
"Don't put it there, Wat! For my sake, for God's sake, don't put it there!" She covers her face with her hands, and trembles again.