With these words Mr. Urquhart’s heavy head sank down till his chin rested against his chest. The shock of the jerk to his neck aroused him again, however; and with a crafty, wrinkled leer he glanced at the empty bottle.

“Empty⁠ ⁠… every drop,” he muttered. Then, with his elbow resting on the table, he supported his head with his hand.

“Torp’s the fellow who upsets me. Why, I can dig a grave better myself! But you must excuse me, Solent. I know you are mixed up with those people. Married the little boy, I mean the little girl, didn’t you? Your relative Torp is a prize fool, Solent. Don’t defend him! I tell you it’s no use. You’re⁠ ⁠… a sensible⁠ ⁠… boy⁠ ⁠… Menelaus⁠ ⁠… though you’re not as good-looking as your father⁠ ⁠… and the best thing you can do is to leave Torp to me. Stonecutter or undertaker, I understand him. I’ve known individuals of his kind all my life. He’s pure Dorset, is the good Torp. Leave him⁠ ⁠… to me⁠ ⁠… leave⁠ ⁠… him⁠ ⁠…”