Mr. Dolls collapsed in his chair, and faintly said “Threepenn’orth rum.”

“Will you do me the favour, my dear Mortimer, to wind up Mr. Dolls again?” said Eugene. “I am occupied with the fumigation.”

A similar quantity was poured into his glass, and he got it to his lips by similar circuitous ways. Having drunk it, Mr. Dolls, with an evident fear of running down again unless he made haste, proceeded to business.

“Mist Wrayburn. Tried to nudge you, but you wouldn’t. You want that drection. You want t’know where she lives. Do you Mist Wrayburn?”

With a glance at his friend, Eugene replied to the question sternly, “I do.”