Meanwhile Jem-y-Lord had edged up to the Deemster and whispered, with looks of fear and mystery, “Don't take it, sir.”
“What?” said Philip vacantly.—“The brandy,” said Jem.
“Eh?”
“It will be——” began Jem, but Pete's step was thundering up the stairs, and with a big opening of the mouth, rather than an audible utterance of the tongue, he added, “poisoned.”
Philip could not comprehend, and Pete came shouting—
“Where's your water, now, ould Snuff-the-Wind?”
While Pete was pouring the brandy into a glass and adding the water, Jemmy caught up a scrap of newspaper that was lying about, rummaged for a pencil, wrote some words on the margin, tore the piece off, and smuggled it into the Deemster's hand.
“Afraid of Pete!” thought Philip. “It is monstrous! monstrous!”
At that moment there was the sound of a horse's hoofs on the road.
“The doctor,” cried Jem-y-Lord. “The doctor at last. Wait, sir, wait,” and he ran downstairs.