“Perhaps not,” said Eliphalet; “but I daresay if you left me alone I could manage it by myself.”
“Righto! See you at the theatre, then. Don’t forget the physic, mind.”
“I won’t forget.”
But he did forget. It was eleven o’clock when Mr. Dyson left, and it was after five when Eliphalet awoke from a profound slumber.
The room was quite dark, save for the light from a street lamp which percolated through the muslin curtains and cast strange shadows on the ceiling.
He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The troublesome itching behind them had abated. His nasal passages were clearer—they actually admitted air.
“I believe I am better,” he said. Then, striking a match, he lit the gas-jet by the bed, and looked at his watch.
“A quarter past five! Old boy, if we are going to play to-night, we had better get up.”
Very unwillingly he withdrew his feet from the cosy coverings and, as he came to a sitting posture and made a tentative search with his toes for the carpet slippers, his eyes fell upon the little paper parcel where Mr. Dyson had left it.
“Good gracious, I have broken my promise!” he exclaimed. “I must take the stuff at once.”