'Out of----? My dear Douglas, aren't you well? Is that the explanation of your laggard step?'
'You are Babbacombe!'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'So that bee's in your bonnet. Very well, I am Babbacombe. I've been told it before; but no one has told me who Babbacombe is.'
'Don't--don't play any more tricks with me. Can't you see I've been nearly driven mad? Tell me; aren't you that--that devil?'
'Douglas, I have learned, to my pain, that you have lately not cut a very pretty figure. I am willing to excuse you on the charitable supposition that, as you say, you have been nearly driven mad. But do not let your madness go too far. Show some method in it, Douglas. Is it money you're in want of? If so, I've plenty, and am quite content that there should be some of it for you. What's the figure, man.'
'The figure?'
He looked as if his wits were wool-gathering. Going to a sideboard I poured out some brandy into a glass.
'Come, Douglas, swallow this. A pick-me-up may do you good. It strikes me that you ought to be in bed rather than abroad.'
He took the glass of brandy with a hand which trembled.