"Nonsense! I am used to noises. The stables are very near my quarters at Canterbury, and the horses kick up a fearful row. Seltzer or soda?"
"Soda, thanks."
Derwent watched the other mix the drinks with a curious fascination. When the tumblers were filled he turned to a portrait at the back of De Courcy and over the sideboard.
"Is that your mother?" he asked.
The officer turned with a smile and looked for a moment at the face smiling back at him. During that moment the elder man drew a small phial from his waistcoat pocket, and poured its contents swiftly and silently into the tumbler nearest his companion. It was a preparation of opium which he used for insomnia, and invariably carried with him; a small dose for one accustomed to the drug as he was, but one large enough to ensure a very heavy sleep in anyone not habituated to it.
"Yes," said De Courcy, in a soft voice, "my mother. She died four years ago. If there be any good about me I owe it to her. God never gave man a better mother."
"Ah, I cannot remember my mother. She died when I was quite a youngster."
He leant his head on his hand, shading it from the lamp. For a moment neither man spoke, and then Derwent reached out his hand and took the tumbler nearest to him, not the one into which he had poured the opium.
"Come, De Courcy, we must drink to your bride. Miss Blakiston!" he cried.