“What in the world have you got into your head now? Why, you have a police patrol at your very door to protect you.”
“To protect me?” Cyril laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, they would prove efficient protectors, no doubt—— What’s that?” he sprang to his feet.
“Nothing,” said Sir Egerton, with a cruel lack of sympathy in his tone. “Man alive, you don’t think any one will attempt to assassinate you while I am in the room with you? For pity’s sake, don’t show the white feather in this way.”
“It is not like you to hit a man when he is down, Stratford.”
“Good gracious! have I lost my head or have you? Here, I’ll witness this precious will of yours, if you will only sit down instead of walking about the place like a troubled spirit. Richard III. was nothing to you. How many murders have you got on your conscience?”
“I wish you would not use that word.” Cyril shuddered. “You seem to forget that to a mere murderer it would not signify; but I am the man to be murdered—that makes all the difference. Murder—ugh! Here, Paschics,” he opened the door a very little way, “come and witness my signature with his Excellency.”
“Now look here, my friend,” said Sir Egerton, when the will had been signed and witnessed, and Paschics had departed again; “you call your doctor in, and take a peg, or a sleeping-draught, or anything that will settle your mind a little. You have made your will, so just put these ideas out of your head, for you are on the high road either to fever or madness the way you are going now.”
“There is one thing I must do. You observe, I put the will and this letter into an envelope directed to my brother. Now I wish you to take the envelope, and send it home under cover with your next despatches, so that it may not be interfered with in the post. I can die happy if I know that you will see to its reaching Caerleon safely. You would not refuse the entreaty of a dying man?”
“A dying fiddlestick!” cried Sir Egerton angrily. “Mortimer, you must be mad already. These delusions are altogether too absurd. Look here, I don’t like leaving you like this. You know perfectly well that I can’t offer you hospitality at the Legation in the present state of affairs; but if you like to sign your resignation of all your offices, and order your servants to pack up for a return to England—for good—and claim my protection as a British subject—why, I’ll take you back with me now.”
“And expose Lady Stratford to the dangers my presence at the Legation would entail? No; I may be in a funk, but I am not quite such a cad as to allow that.”