Mr. Dolls, collapsing in the drowsiest manner after his late intellectual triumph, replied: “Threepenn’orth rum.”

“Wind him up again, my dear Mortimer,” said Wrayburn; “wind him up again.”

“Eugene, Eugene,” urged Lightwood in a low voice, as he complied, “can you stoop to the use of such an instrument as this?”

“I said,” was the reply, made with that former gleam of determination, “that I would find her out by any means, fair or foul. These are foul, and I’ll take them⁠—if I am not first tempted to break the head of Mr. Dolls with the fumigator. Can you get the direction? Do you mean that? Speak! If that’s what you have come for, say how much you want.”

“Ten shillings⁠—Threepenn’orths Rum,” said Mr. Dolls.