The cottage door opened on to a narrow passage, with a staircase on one
side, and on the other a door leading to a small square parlor,
cheerfully if cheaply furnished, and well lit by an oil lamp. A fire
blazed on the hearth, and Beaumaroy sank into a "saddle-bag" armchair
beside it, with a sigh of comfort. The Sergeant had jerked his head
towards another door, on the right of the fireplace; it led to the Tower.
Beaumaroy's eyes settled on it.

"An hour or more, has he? Have you heard anything?"

"He was making a speech a little while back, that's all."

"No more complaints and palpitations, or anything of that sort?"

"Not as I've heard. But he never says much to me. Mrs. Wiles gets the
benefit of his symptoms mostly."

"You're not sympathetic, perhaps."

During the talk Hooper had been to a cupboard and mixed a glass of whisky
and soda. He brought it to Beaumaroy and put it on a small table by him.
Beaumaroy regarded his squat paunchy figure, red face, small eyes (a
squint in one of them), and bulbous nose with a patient and benign
toleration.

"Since you can't expect, Sergeant, to prepossess the judge and jury in
your favor, the instant you make your appearance in the box--"

"Here, what are you on to, sir?"