“Will you, though? I couldn’t sleep without it. Do now—do now! and I won’t say anythin’—I won’t now—on the honour of a gentleman, I won’t. Good night, Mr. What-d’-ye-call—.” And Bedford leads the helot to his chamber.
“I’ve got him in bed; and I’ve given him a dose; and I put some laudanum in it. He ain’t been out. He has not had much to-day,” says Bedford, coming back to my room, with his face ominously pale.
“You have given him laudanum?” I ask.
“Sawbones gave him some yesterday,—told me to give him a little—forty drops,” growls Bedford.
Then the gloomy major-domo puts a hand into each waistcoat pocket, and looks at me. “You want to fight for her, do you, sir? Calling out, and that sort of game? Phoo!”—and he laughs scornfully.
“The little miscreant is too despicable, I own,” say I, “and it’s absurd for a peaceable fellow like me to talk about powder and shot at this time of day. But what could I do?”
“I say it’s she ain’t worth it,” says Bedford, lifting up both clenched fists out of the waistcoat pockets.
“What do you mean, Dick?” I ask.
“She’s humbugging you,—she’s humbugging me,—she’s humbugging everybody,” roars Dick. “Look here, sir!” and out of one of the clenched fists he flings a paper down on the table.
“What is it?” I ask. It’s her handwriting. I see the neat trim lines on the paper.