living who won't tell you the right remedy--wine. Pass the wine. If
this claret is worth a farthing, it's worth a guinea a bottle. I ask
you in confidence; did you ever hear of such a fool as my wife's lord?
His name escapes me. No matter; he stops in Ireland--hunting. Hunting
what? The fox? Nothing so noble; hunting assassins. He's got some
grudge against one of them. Means to kill one of them. A word in your
ear; they'll kill him. Do you ever bet? Five to one, he's a dead man
before the end of the week. When is the end of the week? Tuesday,
Wednesday--no, Saturday--that's the beginning of the week--no, it
isn't--the beginning of the week isn't the Sabbath--Sunday, of
course--we are not Christians, we are Jews--I mean we are Jews, we are
not Christians--I mean--"

The claret got the better of his tongue, at last. He mumbled and
muttered; he sank back in his chair; he chuckled; he hiccupped; he fell
asleep.

All and more than all that Mountjoy feared, he had now discovered. In a
state of sobriety, the doctor was probably one of those men who are
always ready to lie. In a state of intoxication the utterances of his
drunken delirium might unconsciously betray the truth. The reason which
he had given for Lord Harry's continued absence in Ireland, could not
be wisely rejected as unworthy of belief. It was in the reckless nature
of the wild lord to put his own life in peril, in the hope of revenging
Arthur Mountjoy on the wretch who had killed him. Taking this bad news
for granted, was there any need to distress Iris by communicating the
motive which detained Lord Harry in his own country? Surely not!

And, again, was there any immediate advantage to be gained by revealing
the true character of Mrs. Vimpany, as a spy, and, worse still, a spy