voice; he freed himself from his grandson's hold, though not urgently.
"I'm not so keen on your precious tea," he said, seating himself again.
"It's only young milksops like you that have made it fashionable. When I
was young--"

"Hullo!" broke in Piers. He had picked up the cup of tea and was sniffing
it suspiciously. "You've been doctoring this!" he said.

"You drink it!" ordered Sir Beverley peremptorily. "I'm not going to
have you laid up with rheumatic fever if I know it. Drink it, Piers! Do
you hear?"

Piers looked for a moment as if he were on the verge of rebellion, then
abruptly he raised the cup to his lips and drained it. He set it down
with a shudder of distaste.

"You might have let me have it separately," he remarked. "Tea and brandy
don't blend well. I shall sleep like a hog after this. Besides, I
shouldn't have had rheumatic fever. It's not my way. Anything in the
paper to-night?"

"Yes," said Sir Beverley disgustedly. "There's that prize-fight
business."

"What's that?" Piers looked up with quick interest.

"Surely you saw it!" returned Sir Beverley. "That fellow
Adderley--killed his man in a wrestling-match. A good many people said
it was done by a foul."