"Max Van Duren, are you still alive?" The cried, rapping with his key on the door.
A deep groan was the only reply for a little while.
Pringle kept on hammering at the door. "Why don't you answer me?" he screamed.
"For Heaven's sake, Pringle, give me a drop of water, or else leave me to die in peace!" It was hardly to be recognized as the voice of Van Duren, so faint and full of anguish was it.
Pringle's only answer was a laugh.
"Pringle, I am dying!" pleaded the imprisoned man. "The wound on my head has opened afresh, and I am slowly bleeding to death. I am too weak to stand. A few hours will end everything. Give me some water--give me a pillow for my head--give me a little light--and then you may leave me to die."
"All very fine, Mr. Van, but you don't get over me with any of your dodges. Once get the door open it would be all over with me."
"Pringle, I swear to you that I am dying--that I have not strength to walk across the floor."
"Then die," cried Pringle. "It is all you are fit for. Ask for no pity from me." And with that he strode away without waiting to hear another word, and shut the outer door behind him.
He stayed in the office as usual till evening; but he did not go near Van Duren again all day. He had found a bottle of brandy upstairs in Van Duren's room; this he appropriated, and his devotions were paid to it so often during the day, that when evening came very little of it was left. When he had closed the office, he sallied out, as on the previous evening, but still without visiting his prisoner. He had no appetite to-day; he could not eat. All he craved was more drink, and so long as he had money in his pocket there was no difficulty in getting that. Again he took what he called his rounds, and again it was close on midnight when he found himself back in Spur Alley.