“Under the circumstances we will make shift with the tea-cup.”
It was handed to him by Lionel. “The tea-cup turns out to be a coffee-cup,” said Tom. With that, he went down on one knee, drew the cork, half filled the cup with wine, and then offered it to Lionel.
“Not till you and Creede have both drunk to my health and acquittal,” said the latter.
Tom took back the cup, gave utterance to an appropriate sentence or two, and tossed off the wine. Then going down again on one knee, he proceeded to refill the cup. The table was between him and Creede, and the latter, who had not failed to prick up his ears at the mention of something to drink, could not see clearly how Tom was engaged. He could hear the wine gurgle from the bottle into the cup, and that as enough for him. He did not see Tom’s nimble fingers extract a tiny phial from his waistcoat pocket, and pour the contents into the wine.
“Creede grumbled because my bag was so heavy,” said Tom, with a chuckle. “He wouldn’t have said a word had he known what was inside it. Here, man, drink this off to Mr. Dering’s very good health, and tell me whether you ever tasted anything better in your life.”
He handed the cup to Creede, who rose somewhat unsteadily from his chair to take it. “I drink to your very good health, Mr. Dering,” he said, in a loutish sort of way, “and may you have a good deliverance.” And carrying the cup to his mouth with a shaking hand, he drank off the contents at a draught.
Both Tom and Lionel were watching him keenly. He crossed the cell and put the cup down on the window-ledge, making a wry face as he did so. Then he sat down again on his chair.
“I am afraid, Creede, that you have vitiated your palate by accustoming it to inferior drinks,” said Tom, “and that you don’t know a good wine when you taste it.”
“I’d sooner have one quartern of real old Jamaica than a gallon of that rubbish,” growled Creede, with ill-disguised contempt.
“Now for business,” said Tom. “There’s not a minute to lose.” And with that he fished a formidable-looking heap of documents from the depths of his bag. “Of course, the first thing to do,” he went on, “is to get hold of our two new witnesses, Robinson and Davis. I think I can lay hands on them without much difficulty.” And with that he went off into a long rigmarole respecting the supposed steps which it would be needful to take in the new state of affairs, but keeping a careful watch on Creede, meanwhile, out of the corners of his eyes.