“But you will see him in the morning, won’t you, and act as peacemaker between us, if it be possible to do so?”
“Certainly, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it. The brawl was an utterly disreputable piece of business. I ought not to have let my temper overmaster me. I ought, under no circumstances, to have forgotten that Percy Osmond was my guest.”
“Well, never mind all that now. We can discuss the affair fully in the morning. See, I have brought you the mixture I spoke of for your head. I think you will find that it will do you good.”
He held out the tankard as he spoke. His pale face looked paler than ever to-night—his black moustache blacker than ever; but his restless eyes seemed to fix themselves anywhere rather than on his cousin’s face. Lionel took the tankard from Kester’s hand, and drank off the contents at a draught. Then he wiped his lips with his pocket handkerchief, and having no coat on, he stuffed the handkerchief carelessly under his braces for the time being.
“And now I’ll leave you to sweet slumber and happy dreams,” said Kester, as he took back the empty tankard. “Your head will be better by morning, I do not doubt. Good night.”
“Good night,” responded Lionel, languidly, from his chair by the fire.
Kester went softly out, and closed the door lightly behind him.
Ten minutes passed away, and then Lionel awoke with a start to find that he had unconsciously fallen into a doze over the fire. The pain in his head certainly seemed a little better already. But when he rose to his feet, he found that he could hardly stand. His limbs seemed too weak to support him, and he was overcome with a dull heavy drowsiness such as he had never felt before. The room and everything in it began to rock slowly up and down like the cabin of a ship at sea. There were only two candles on the table, but Lionel seemed to see a dozen. Sleep—sleep of the deepest—seemed to be numbing both his heart and his brain. Consciousness was fast leaving him. He staggered rather than walked to the couch on the opposite side of the room. He reached it. He had just sense enough left to fling himself on it, and then he remembered nothing more.
He remembered nothing more till he awoke next morning. It was broad daylight when he opened his eyes. He had to gather his wits together and to think for a minute or two before he could call to mind how and why it was that he found himself lying there, on his dressing-room couch, instead of in his bed as usual. Then all the events of the evening flashed across his mind in a moment: the quarrel in the billiard-room; the pistol-shot; the pain in his head; the draught given him by his cousin, and the strange effect it had upon him. “It must have been a very powerful narcotic,” said Lionel to himself. “But, at all events, it has cured my headache.”