“Right, sir!”
I rebolted the door, boos and groans coming from the crowd as they perceived themselves being shut out from the sight of anything which there might be to see. Hume had entered. He was looking about him as if the position of affairs were beyond his comprehension.
“Symonds, what does all this mean? Ferguson, what new madness have you been up to? Miss Moore, you here! This is no place for you!”
“I think it is.”
“I say it’s not. You ought to be in bed. Who gave you permission to leave your room?”
“I gave myself permission, thank you. I am quite able to take care of myself. And, if I’m not, here’s Mr. Ferguson.”
“Mr. Ferguson! Mr. Ferguson stands in need of some one to take care of him.” He turned to me. “If you’ve had a hand in bringing Miss Moore here, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, if you’re capable of shame, which I’m beginning to doubt. Surely your own sense of decency, embryonic though it may be, ought to have told you that it is no place for her. What is this den which you have brought her to?”
“Here is some one who can tell you better than I. Ask him, not me.”
Lawrence broke into laughter.
“That’s it, Ferguson. Hume, ask the corpse.”