He paused in the passage, with his face turned towards Raffles’s room, and he could hear him moaning and murmuring. He was not asleep, then. Who could know that Lydgate’s prescription would not be better disobeyed than followed, since there was still no sleep?
He turned into his own room. Before he had quite undressed, Mrs. Abel rapped at the door; he opened it an inch, so that he could hear her speak low.
“If you please, sir, should I have no brandy nor nothing to give the poor creetur? He feels sinking away, and nothing else will he swaller—and but little strength in it, if he did—only the opium. And he says more and more he’s sinking down through the earth.”
To her surprise, Mr. Bulstrode did not answer. A struggle was going on within him.
“I think he must die for want o’ support, if he goes on in that way. When I nursed my poor master, Mr. Robisson, I had to give him port-wine and brandy constant, and a big glass at a time,” added Mrs. Abel, with a touch of remonstrance in her tone.
But again Mr. Bulstrode did not answer immediately, and she continued, “It’s not a time to spare when people are at death’s door, nor would you wish it, sir, I’m sure. Else I should give him our own bottle o’ rum as we keep by us. But a sitter-up so as you’ve been, and doing everything as laid in your power—”
Here a key was thrust through the inch of doorway, and Mr. Bulstrode said huskily, “That is the key of the wine-cooler. You will find plenty of brandy there.”
Early in the morning—about six— Mr. Bulstrode rose and spent some time in prayer. Does anyone suppose that private prayer is necessarily