"Are you ill, man?"
Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a
hand, out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled
hair. The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:
'He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can't
behave--'
The figure against the wall heaved a sigh--so truly from an overburdened
heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet
fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got up, and, back to the
fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design:
"What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb
as a fish?"
For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the
whisper:
"Yes."
The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled
Keith to say vigorously:
"By Jove! You have been drinking!"
But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.
"What do you mean? Come here, where I can see you. What's the matter
with you, Larry?"
With a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the
shadow, and sank into a chair in the circle of light.
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