“Oh, yes, yes,” I said. “Shut the door quietly, please; and I should like my shaving water in about an hour.”
Then I lay back quietly, closing my eyes in pain and rehearsing such speeches as would be necessary to put both Mr. Chrysostom Lorton and Ezekiel Stool in the full possession of the facts of the case. It would also be essential, I foresaw, to call a further special meeting of the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union and to make a point of addressing, at the earliest opportunity, the Society for the Prevention of the Strong Drink Traffic. It would be equally important too, in my capacity of gap-filler, to prepare an explanatory petition for use at the local prayer-meetings, the majority of which had contributed members to last night’s audience in the Porter Street Drill Hall. Yes, it was all coming back to me in its devilish ingenuity (for it had evidently been a plot on the part of Mr. Maidstone’s daughter), and she might depend upon it that if legal redress were possible, it should be extracted from her to the last farthing.
But was it possible? The more I considered it, the more doubtful I became. And even were it possible, would it be expedient? The condition of my head forbade an immediate answer. Indeed I was now the subject of a thirst so overwhelming that without pausing to summon my mother, I was obliged to quench it from the various receptacles within easy reach upon my wash-hand stand. I was profoundly shocked, too, by the aspect of my countenance, as this was disclosed to me by my looking-glass; and accustomed as I was to a frequently concealed tongue, I had never before seen it so deeply obscured. Even after I had shaved and dressed, indeed, I was a little doubtful as to whether I should be able to complete the journey to town. But I was determined if possible not only to make the attempt, but to perform my usual afternoon duties. After a cup of tea therefore, and a fragment of dried herring, I ventured into the street and mounted an omnibus, arriving in Paternoster Row at about two o’clock to find Miss Botterill in charge of the show-room.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “I have been the victim of a dastardly plot, or I should have been in my place this morning as usual.”
“Good afternoon,” she replied, “and please, Mr. Chrysostom said, would you go up to his room as soon as you arrived.”
“Certainly,” I said, “and when I come down, Miss Botterill, I should like to see that counter looking a little tidier.”
Miss Botterill hesitated.
“I’m just rearranging it,” she said. “I propose in future to have it less crowded.”
I stared at her.
“You propose what?” I asked.