Bab Bab 46 · Chapter X（3）

He hit the book a sounding blow with his open hand, and struck out of

it a stronger smell of stale tobacco than ever.

“What did I find here,” pursued Betteredge, “at the first page I

opened? This awful bit, sir, page one hundred and seventy-eight, as

follows:—‘Upon these, and many like Reflections, I afterwards made it a

certain rule with me, That whenever I found those secret Hints or

Pressings of my Mind, to doing, or not doing any Thing that presented;

or to going this Way, or that Way, I never failed to obey the secret

Dictate.’ As I live by bread, Mr. Jennings, those were the first words

that met my eye, exactly at the time when I myself was setting the

secret Dictate at defiance! You don’t see anything at all out of the

common in that, do you, sir?”

“I see a coincidence—nothing more.”

“You don’t feel at all shaken, Mr. Jennings, in respect to this medical

enterprise of yours?

“Not the least in the world.”

Betteredge stared hard at me, in dead silence. He closed the book with

great deliberation; he locked it up again in the cupboard with

extraordinary care; he wheeled round, and stared hard at me once more.

Then he spoke.

“Sir,” he said gravely, “there are great allowances to be made for a

man who has not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since he was a child. I wish you

good morning.”

He opened his door with a low bow, and left me at liberty to find my

own way into the garden. I met Mr. Blake returning to the house.

“You needn’t tell me what has happened,” he said. “Betteredge has

played his last card: he has made another prophetic discovery in

_Robinson Crusoe_. Have you humoured his favourite delusion? No? You

have let him see that you don’t believe in _Robinson Crusoe_? Mr.

Jennings! you have fallen to the lowest possible place in Betteredge’s

estimation. Say what you like, and do what you like, for the future.

You will find that he won’t waste another word on you now.”

June 21st.—A short entry must suffice in my journal today.

Mr. Blake has had the worst night that he has passed yet. I have been

obliged, greatly against my will, to prescribe for him. Men of his

sensitive organisation are fortunately quick in feeling the effect of

remedial measures. Otherwise, I should be inclined to fear that he will

be totally unfit for the experiment when the time comes to try it.

As for myself, after some little remission of my pains for the last two

days I had an attack this morning, of which I shall say nothing but

that it has decided me to return to the opium. I shall close this book,

and take my full dose—five hundred drops.

June 22nd.—Our prospects look better today. Mr. Blake’s nervous

suffering is greatly allayed. He slept a little last night. _My_ night,

thanks to the opium, was the night of a man who is stunned. I can’t say

that I woke this morning; the fitter expression would be, that I

recovered my senses.

We drove to the house to see if the refurnishing was done. It will be

completed tomorrow—Saturday. As Mr. Blake foretold, Betteredge raised

no further obstacles. From first to last, he was ominously polite, and

ominously silent.

My medical enterprise (as Betteredge calls it) must now, inevitably, be

delayed until Monday next. Tomorrow evening the workmen will be late in

the house. On the next day, the established Sunday tyranny which is one

of the institutions of this free country, so times the trains as to

make it impossible to ask anybody to travel to us from London. Until

Monday comes, there is nothing to be done but to watch Mr. Blake

carefully, and to keep him, if possible, in the same state in which I

find him today.

In the meanwhile, I have prevailed on him to write to Mr. Bruff, making

a point of it that he shall be present as one of the witnesses. I

especially choose the lawyer, because he is strongly prejudiced against

us. If we convince _him_, we place our victory beyond the possibility

of dispute.

Mr. Blake has also written to Sergeant Cuff; and I have sent a line to

Miss Verinder. With these, and with old Betteredge (who is really a

person of importance in the family) we shall have witnesses enough for

the purpose—without including Mrs. Merridew, if Mrs. Merridew persists

in sacrificing herself to the opinion of the world.

June 23rd.—The vengeance of the opium overtook me again last night. No

matter; I must go on with it now till Monday is past and gone.

Mr. Blake is not so well again today. At two this morning, he confesses

that he opened the drawer in which his cigars are put away. He only

succeeded in locking it up again by a violent effort. His next

proceeding, in case of temptation, was to throw the key out of window.

The waiter brought it in this morning, discovered at the bottom of an

empty cistern—such is Fate! I have taken possession of the key until

Tuesday next.

June 24th.—Mr. Blake and I took a long drive in an open carriage. We

both felt beneficially the blessed influence of the soft summer air. I

dined with him at the hotel. To my great relief—for I found him in an

over-wrought, over-excited state this morning—he had two hours’ sound

sleep on the sofa after dinner. If he has another bad night, now—I am

not afraid of the consequences.

June 25th, Monday.—The day of the experiment! It is five o’clock in the

afternoon. We have just arrived at the house.

The first and foremost question, is the question of Mr. Blake’s health.

So far as it is possible for me to judge, he promises (physically

speaking) to be quite as susceptible to the action of the opium tonight

as he was at this time last year. He is, this afternoon, in a state of

nervous sensitiveness which just stops short of nervous irritation. He

changes colour readily; his hand is not quite steady; and he starts at

chance noises, and at unexpected appearances of persons and things.

These results have all been produced by deprivation of sleep, which is

in its turn the nervous consequence of a sudden cessation in the habit

of smoking, after that habit has been carried to an extreme. Here are

the same causes at work again, which operated last year; and here are,

apparently, the same effects. Will the parallel still hold good, when

the final test has been tried? The events of the night must decide.

While I write these lines, Mr. Blake is amusing himself at the billiard

table in the inner hall, practising different strokes in the game, as

he was accustomed to practise them when he was a guest in this house in

June last. I have brought my journal here, partly with a view to

occupying the idle hours which I am sure to have on my hands between

this and tomorrow morning; partly in the hope that something may happen

which it may be worth my while to place on record at the time.

Have I omitted anything, thus far? A glance at yesterday’s entry shows

me that I have forgotten to note the arrival of the morning’s post. Let

me set this right before I close these leaves for the present, and join

Mr. Blake.

I received a few lines then, yesterday, from Miss Verinder. She has

arranged to travel by the afternoon train, as I recommended. Mrs.

Merridew has insisted on accompanying her. The note hints that the old

lady’s generally excellent temper is a little ruffled, and requests all

due indulgence for her, in consideration of her age and her habits. I

will endeavour, in my relations with Mrs. Merridew, to emulate the

moderation which Betteredge displays in his relations with me. He

received us today, portentously arrayed in his best black suit, and his

stiffest white cravat. Whenever he looks my way, he remembers that I

have not read _Robinson Crusoe_ since I was a child, and he

respectfully pities me.

Yesterday, also, Mr. Blake had the lawyer’s answer. Mr. Bruff accepts

the invitation—under protest. It is, he thinks, clearly necessary that

a gentleman possessed of the average allowance of common sense, should

accompany Miss Verinder to the scene of, what we will venture to call,

the proposed exhibition. For want of a better escort, Mr. Bruff himself

will be that gentleman.—So here is poor Miss Verinder provided with two

“chaperones.” It is a relief to think that the opinion of the world

must surely be satisfied with this!

Nothing has been heard of Sergeant Cuff. He is no doubt still in

Ireland. We must not expect to see him tonight.

Betteredge has just come in, to say that Mr. Blake has asked for me. I

must lay down my pen for the present.

Seven o’clock.—We have been all over the refurnished rooms and

staircases again; and we have had a pleasant stroll in the shrubbery,

which was Mr. Blake’s favourite walk when he was here last. In this

way, I hope to revive the old impressions of places and things as

vividly as possible in his mind.

We are now going to dine, exactly at the hour at which the birthday

dinner was given last year. My object, of course, is a purely medical

one in this case. The laudanum must find the process of digestion, as

nearly as may be, where the laudanum found it last year.

At a reasonable time after dinner I propose to lead the conversation

back again—as inartificially as I can—to the subject of the Diamond,

and of the Indian conspiracy to steal it. When I have filled his mind

with these topics, I shall have done all that it is in my power to do,

before the time comes for giving him the second dose.

Half-past eight.—I have only this moment found an opportunity of

attending to the most important duty of all; the duty of looking in the

family medicine chest, for the laudanum which Mr. Candy used last year.

Ten minutes since, I caught Betteredge at an unoccupied moment, and

told him what I wanted. Without a word of objection, without so much as

an attempt to produce his pocket-book, he led the way (making

allowances for me at every step) to the store-room in which the

medicine chest is kept.

I discovered the bottle, carefully guarded by a glass stopper tied over

with leather. The preparation which it contained was, as I had

anticipated, the common Tincture of Opium. Finding the bottle still

well filled, I have resolved to use it, in preference to employing

either of the two preparations with which I had taken care to provide

myself, in case of emergency.

The question of the quantity which I am to administer presents certain

difficulties. I have thought it over, and have decided on increasing

the dose.

My notes inform me that Mr. Candy only administered twenty-five minims.

This is a small dose to have produced the results which followed—even

in the case of a person so sensitive as Mr. Blake. I think it highly

probable that Mr. Candy gave more than he supposed himself to have

given—knowing, as I do, that he has a keen relish of the pleasures of

the table, and that he measured out the laudanum on the birthday, after

dinner. In any case, I shall run the risk of enlarging the dose to

forty minims. On this occasion, Mr. Blake knows beforehand that he is

going to take the laudanum—which is equivalent, physiologically

speaking, to his having (unconsciously to himself) a certain capacity

in him to resist the effects. If my view is right, a larger quantity is

therefore imperatively required, this time, to repeat the results which

the smaller quantity produced, last year.

Ten o’clock.—The witnesses, or the company (which shall I call them?)

reached the house an hour since.

A little before nine o’clock, I prevailed on Mr. Blake to accompany me

to his bedroom; stating, as a reason, that I wished him to look round

it, for the last time, in order to make quite sure that nothing had

been forgotten in the refurnishing of the room. I had previously

arranged with Betteredge, that the bedchamber prepared for Mr. Bruff

should be the next room to Mr. Blake’s, and that I should be informed

of the lawyer’s arrival by a knock at the door. Five minutes after the

clock in the hall had struck nine, I heard the knock; and, going out

immediately, met Mr. Bruff in the corridor.

My personal appearance (as usual) told against me. Mr. Bruff’s distrust

looked at me plainly enough out of Mr. Bruff’s eyes. Being well used to

producing this effect on strangers, I did not hesitate a moment in

saying what I wanted to say, before the lawyer found his way into Mr.

Blake’s room.

“You have travelled here, I believe, in company with Mrs. Merridew and

Miss Verinder?” I said.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Bruff, as drily as might be.

“Miss Verinder has probably told you, that I wish her presence in the

house (and Mrs. Merridew’s presence of course) to be kept a secret from

Mr. Blake, until my experiment on him has been tried first?”

“I know that I am to hold my tongue, sir!” said Mr. Bruff, impatiently.

“Being habitually silent on the subject of human folly, I am all the

readier to keep my lips closed on this occasion. Does that satisfy

you?”

I bowed, and left Betteredge to show him to his room. Betteredge gave

me one look at parting, which said, as if in so many words, “You have

caught a Tartar, Mr. Jennings—and the name of him is Bruff.”

It was next necessary to get the meeting over with the two ladies. I

descended the stairs—a little nervously, I confess—on my way to Miss

Verinder’s sitting-room.

The gardener’s wife (charged with looking after the accommodation of

the ladies) met me in the first-floor corridor. This excellent woman

treats me with an excessive civility which is plainly the offspring of

down-right terror. She stares, trembles, and curtseys, whenever I speak

to her. On my asking for Miss Verinder, she stared, trembled, and would

no doubt have curtseyed next, if Miss Verinder herself had not cut that

ceremony short, by suddenly opening her sitting-room door.

“Is that Mr. Jennings?” she asked.

Before I could answer, she came out eagerly to speak to me in the

corridor. We met under the light of a lamp on a bracket. At the first

sight of me, Miss Verinder stopped, and hesitated. She recovered

herself instantly, coloured for a moment—and then, with a charming

frankness, offered me her hand.

“I can’t treat you like a stranger, Mr. Jennings,” she said. “Oh, if

you only knew how happy your letters have made me!”

She looked at my ugly wrinkled face, with a bright gratitude so new to

me in _my_ experience of my fellow-creatures, that I was at a loss how

to answer her. Nothing had prepared me for her kindness and her beauty.

The misery of many years has not hardened my heart, thank God. I was as

awkward and as shy with her, as if I had been a lad in my teens.

“Where is he now?” she asked, giving free expression to her one

dominant interest—the interest in Mr. Blake. “What is he doing? Has he

spoken of me? Is he in good spirits? How does he bear the sight of the

house, after what happened in it last year? When are you going to give

him the laudanum? May I see you pour it out? I am so interested; I am

so excited—I have ten thousand things to say to you, and they all crowd

together so that I don’t know what to say first. Do you wonder at the

interest I take in this?”

“No,” I said. “I venture to think that I thoroughly understand it.”

She was far above the paltry affectation of being confused. She

answered me as she might have answered a brother or a father.

“You have relieved me of indescribable wretchedness; you have given me

a new life. How can I be ungrateful enough to have any concealment from

_you?_ I love him,” she said simply, “I have loved him from first to

last—even when I was wronging him in my own thoughts; even when I was

saying the hardest and the cruellest words to him. Is there any excuse

for me, in that? I hope there is—I am afraid it is the only excuse I

have. When tomorrow comes, and he knows that I am in the house, do you

think——”

She stopped again, and looked at me very earnestly.

“When tomorrow comes,” I said, “I think you have only to tell him what

you have just told me.”

Her face brightened; she came a step nearer to me. Her fingers trifled

nervously with a flower which I had picked in the garden, and which I

had put into the button-hole of my coat.

“You have seen a great deal of him lately,” she said. “Have you, really

and truly, seen _that?_”

“Really and truly,” I answered. “I am quite certain of what will happen

tomorrow. I wish I could feel as certain of what will happen tonight.”

At that point in the conversation, we were interrupted by the

appearance of Betteredge with the tea-tray. He gave me another

significant look as he passed on into the sitting-room. “Aye! aye! make

your hay while the sun shines. The Tartar’s upstairs, Mr. Jennings—the

Tartar’s upstairs!”

We followed him into the room. A little old lady, in a corner, very

nicely dressed, and very deeply absorbed over a smart piece of

embroidery, dropped her work in her lap, and uttered a faint little

scream at the first sight of my gipsy complexion and my piebald hair.

“Mrs. Merridew,” said Miss Verinder, “this is Mr. Jennings.”

“I beg Mr. Jennings’s pardon,” said the old lady, looking at Miss

Verinder, and speaking at _me_. “Railway travelling always makes me

nervous. I am endeavouring to quiet my mind by occupying myself as

usual. I don’t know whether my embroidery is out of place, on this

extraordinary occasion. If it interferes with Mr. Jennings’s medical

views, I shall be happy to put it away of course.”

I hastened to sanction the presence of the embroidery, exactly as I had

sanctioned the absence of the burst buzzard and the Cupid’s wing. Mrs.

Merridew made an effort—a grateful effort—to look at my hair. No! it

was not to be done. Mrs. Merridew looked back again at Miss Verinder.

“If Mr. Jennings will permit me,” pursued the old lady, “I should like

to ask a favour. Mr. Jennings is about to try a scientific experiment

tonight. I used to attend scientific experiments when I was a girl at

school. They invariably ended in an explosion. If Mr. Jennings will be

so very kind, I should like to be warned of the explosion this time.

With a view to getting it over, if possible, before I go to bed.”

I attempted to assure Mrs. Merridew that an explosion was not included

in the programme on this occasion.

“No,” said the old lady. “I am much obliged to Mr. Jennings—I am aware

that he is only deceiving me for my own good. I prefer plain dealing. I

am quite resigned to the explosion—but I _do_ want to get it over, if

possible, before I go to bed.”

Here the door opened, and Mrs. Merridew uttered another little scream.

The advent of the explosion? No: only the advent of Betteredge.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings,” said Betteredge, in his most

elaborately confidential manner. “Mr. Franklin wishes to know where you

are. Being under your orders to deceive him, in respect to the presence

of my young lady in the house, I have said I don’t know. That, you will

please to observe, was a lie. Having one foot already in the grave,

sir, the fewer lies you expect me to tell, the more I shall be indebted

to you, when my conscience pricks me and my time comes.”

There was not a moment to be wasted on the purely speculative question

of Betteredge’s conscience. Mr. Blake might make his appearance in

search of me, unless I went to him at once in his own room. Miss

Verinder followed me out into the corridor.

“They seem to be in a conspiracy to persecute you,” she said. “What

does it mean?”

“Only the protest of the world, Miss Verinder—on a very small

scale—against anything that is new.”

“What are we to do with Mrs. Merridew?”

“Tell her the explosion will take place at nine tomorrow morning.”

“So as to send her to bed?”

“Yes—so as to send her to bed.”

Miss Verinder went back to the sitting-room, and I went upstairs to Mr.

Blake.

To my surprise I found him alone; restlessly pacing his room, and a

little irritated at being left by himself.

“Where is Mr. Bruff?” I asked.

He pointed to the closed door of communication between the two rooms.

Mr. Bruff had looked in on him, for a moment; had attempted to renew

his protest against our proceedings; and had once more failed to

produce the smallest impression on Mr. Blake. Upon this, the lawyer had

taken refuge in a black leather bag, filled to bursting with

professional papers. “The serious business of life,” he admitted, “was

sadly out of place on such an occasion as the present. But the serious

business of life must be carried on, for all that. Mr. Blake would

perhaps kindly make allowance for the old-fashioned habits of a

practical man. Time was money—and, as for Mr. Jennings, he might depend

on it that Mr. Bruff would be forthcoming when called upon.” With that

apology, the lawyer had gone back to his own room, and had immersed

himself obstinately in his black bag.

I thought of Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and of Betteredge and

his conscience. There is a wonderful sameness in the solid side of the

English character—just as there is a wonderful sameness in the solid

expression of the English face.

“When are you going to give me the laudanum?” asked Mr. Blake

impatiently.

“You must wait a little longer,” I said. “I will stay and keep you

company till the time comes.”

It was then not ten o’clock. Inquiries which I had made, at various

times, of Betteredge and Mr. Blake, had led me to the conclusion that

the dose of laudanum given by Mr. Candy could not possibly have been

administered before eleven. I had accordingly determined not to try the

second dose until that time.

We talked a little; but both our minds were preoccupied by the coming

ordeal. The conversation soon flagged—then dropped altogether. Mr.

Blake idly turned over the books on his bedroom table. I had taken the

precaution of looking at them, when we first entered the room. _The

Guardian_; _The Tatler_; Richardson’s _Pamela_; Mackenzie’s _Man of

Feeling_; Roscoe’s _Lorenzo de’ Medici_; and Robertson’s _Charles the

Fifth_—all classical works; all (of course) immeasurably superior to

anything produced in later times; and all (from my present point of

view) possessing the one great merit of enchaining nobody’s interest,

and exciting nobody’s brain. I left Mr. Blake to the composing

influence of Standard Literature, and occupied myself in making this

entry in my journal.

My watch informs me that it is close on eleven o’clock. I must shut up

these leaves once more.

Two o’clock A.M.—The experiment has been tried. With what result, I am

now to describe.

At eleven o’clock, I rang the bell for Betteredge, and told Mr. Blake

that he might at last prepare himself for bed.

I looked out of the window at the night. It was mild and rainy,

resembling, in this respect, the night of the birthday—the twenty-first

of June, last year. Without professing to believe in omens, it was at

least encouraging to find no direct nervous influences—no stormy or

electric perturbations—in the atmosphere. Betteredge joined me at the

window, and mysteriously put a little slip of paper into my hand. It

contained these lines:

“Mrs. Merridew has gone to bed, on the distinct understanding that the

explosion is to take place at nine tomorrow morning, and that I am not

to stir out of this part of the house until she comes and sets me free.

She has no idea that the chief scene of the experiment is my

sitting-room—or she would have remained in it for the whole night! I am

alone, and very anxious. Pray let me see you measure out the laudanum;

I want to have something to do with it, even in the unimportant

character of a mere looker-on.—R.V.”

I followed Betteredge out of the room, and told him to remove the

medicine-chest into Miss Verinder’s sitting-room.

The order appeared to take him completely by surprise. He looked as if

he suspected me of some occult medical design on Miss Verinder! “Might

I presume to ask,” he said, “what my young lady and the medicine-chest

have got to do with each other?”

“Stay in the sitting-room, and you will see.”

Betteredge appeared to doubt his own unaided capacity to superintend me

effectually, on an occasion when a medicine-chest was included in the

proceedings.

“Is there any objection, sir” he asked, “to taking Mr. Bruff into this

part of the business?”

“Quite the contrary! I am now going to ask Mr. Bruff to accompany me

downstairs.”

Betteredge withdrew to fetch the medicine-chest, without another word.

I went back into Mr. Blake’s room, and knocked at the door of

communication. Mr. Bruff opened it, with his papers in his

hand—immersed in Law; impenetrable to Medicine.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” I said. “But I am going to prepare the

laudanum for Mr. Blake; and I must request you to be present, and to

see what I do.”

“Yes?” said Mr. Bruff, with nine-tenths of his attention riveted on his

papers, and with one-tenth unwillingly accorded to me. “Anything else?”

“I must trouble you to return here with me, and to see me administer

the dose.”

“Anything else?”

“One thing more. I must put you to the inconvenience of remaining in

Mr. Blake’s room, and of waiting to see what happens.”

“Oh, very good!” said Mr. Bruff. “My room, or Mr. Blake’s room—it

doesn’t matter which; I can go on with my papers anywhere. Unless you

object, Mr. Jennings, to my importing _that_ amount of common sense

into the proceedings?”

Before I could answer, Mr. Blake addressed himself to the lawyer,

speaking from his bed.

“Do you really mean to say that you don’t feel any interest in what we

are going to do?” he asked. “Mr. Bruff, you have no more imagination

than a cow!”

“A cow is a very useful animal, Mr. Blake,” said the lawyer. With that

reply he followed me out of the room, still keeping his papers in his

hand.

We found Miss Verinder, pale and agitated, restlessly pacing her

sitting-room from end to end. At a table in a corner stood Betteredge,

on guard over the medicine-chest. Mr. Bruff sat down on the first chair

that he could find, and (emulating the usefulness of the cow) plunged

back again into his papers on the spot.

Miss Verinder drew me aside, and reverted instantly to her one

all-absorbing interest—her interest in Mr. Blake.

“How is he now?” she asked. “Is he nervous? is he out of temper? Do you

think it will succeed? Are you sure it will do no harm?”

“Quite sure. Come, and see me measure it out.”

“One moment! It is past eleven now. How long will it be before anything

happens?”

“It is not easy to say. An hour perhaps.”

“I suppose the room must be dark, as it was last year?”

“Certainly.”

“I shall wait in my bedroom—just as I did before. I shall keep the door

a little way open. It was a little way open last year. I will watch the

sitting-room door; and the moment it moves, I will blow out my light.

It all happened in that way, on my birthday night. And it must all

happen again in the same way, musn’t it?”

“Are you sure you can control yourself, Miss Verinder?”

“In _his_ interests, I can do anything!” she answered fervently.

One look at her face told me that I could trust her. I addressed myself

again to Mr. Bruff.

“I must trouble you to put your papers aside for a moment,” I said.

“Oh, certainly!” He got up with a start—as if I had disturbed him at a

particularly interesting place—and followed me to the medicine-chest.

There, deprived of the breathless excitement incidental to the practice

of his profession, he looked at Betteredge—and yawned wearily.

Miss Verinder joined me with a glass jug of cold water, which she had

taken from a side-table. “Let me pour out the water,” she whispered. “I

_must_ have a hand in it!”

I measured out the forty minims from the bottle, and poured the

laudanum into a medicine glass. “Fill it till it is three parts full,”

I said, and handed the glass to Miss Verinder. I then directed

Betteredge to lock up the medicine chest; informing him that I had done

with it now. A look of unutterable relief overspread the old servant’s

countenance. He had evidently suspected me of a medical design on his

young lady!

After adding the water as I had directed, Miss Verinder seized a

moment—while Betteredge was locking the chest, and while Mr. Bruff was

looking back to his papers—and slyly kissed the rim of the medicine

glass. “When you give it to him,” said the charming girl, “give it to

him on that side!”

I took the piece of crystal which was to represent the Diamond from my

pocket, and gave it to her.

“You must have a hand in this, too,” I said. “You must put it where you

put the Moonstone last year.”

She led the way to the Indian cabinet, and put the mock Diamond into

the drawer which the real Diamond had occupied on the birthday night.

Mr. Bruff witnessed this proceeding, under protest, as he had witnessed

everything else. But the strong dramatic interest which the experiment

was now assuming, proved (to my great amusement) to be too much for

Betteredge’s capacity of self-restraint. His hand trembled as he held

the candle, and he whispered anxiously, “Are you sure, miss, it’s the

right drawer?”

I led the way out again, with the laudanum and water in my hand. At the

door, I stopped to address a last word to Miss Verinder.

“Don’t be long in putting out the lights,” I said.

“I will put them out at once,” she answered. “And I will wait in my

bedroom, with only one candle alight.”

She closed the sitting-room door behind us. Followed by Mr. Bruff and

Betteredge, I went back to Mr. Blake’s room.

We found him moving restlessly from side to side of the bed, and

wondering irritably whether he was to have the laudanum that night. In

the presence of the two witnesses, I gave him the dose, and shook up

his pillows, and told him to lie down again quietly and wait.

His bed, provided with light chintz curtains, was placed, with the head

against the wall of the room, so as to leave a good open space on

either side of it. On one side, I drew the curtains completely—and in

the part of the room thus screened from his view, I placed Mr. Bruff

and Betteredge, to wait for the result. At the bottom of the bed I half

drew the curtains—and placed my own chair at a little distance, so that

I might let him see me or not see me, speak to me or not speak to me,

just as the circumstances might direct. Having already been informed

that he always slept with a light in the room, I placed one of the two

lighted candles on a little table at the head of the bed, where the

glare of the light would not strike on his eyes. The other candle I

gave to Mr. Bruff; the light, in this instance, being subdued by the

screen of the chintz curtains. The window was open at the top, so as to

ventilate the room. The rain fell softly, the house was quiet. It was

twenty minutes past eleven, by my watch, when the preparations were

completed, and I took my place on the chair set apart at the bottom of

the bed.