At this moment the key again turned in the lock, and Davidson entered, bearing a tray with an appetising dinner.
“How do I know these things are not drugged also?” said Aymer.
“Drugged, sir? That’s always their delusion. Them’s good victuals. I’ll taste if you like.” And he did so.
While his head was turned, Aymer, weak as he was, made a rush at the door. The warder turned and seized him, and led him back to his chair like a child. Aymer, mad with passion, threatened him, and snatched at a knife upon the table.
“Ay, ay; steady, sir,” said the warder, quite coolly; “that’s no use, my waistcoat is padded on purpose. I’ve had him padded ever since Mr Odo made a stab at me. Now, now, sir, do be quiet; you’re only a hurting yourself. Eat your dinner and get stronger, and maybe then you can have a wrestle with me.”
He glanced with a half smile at Aymer’s slight, panting figure, and then at his own sturdy proportions, winked, and withdrew.
As his steps died away in the passage, Aymer started to his feet in intense astonishment. He had heard his own name; he could not believe his senses—was he really mad?
“Aymer Malet, Esq.”
The voice was low, but distinct. It might come from the doorway, the window, the wall, the ceiling. He was startled, but replied—
“Yes; I am here.”