Part 17 (1/2)

'I was trying to wake him out of sleep.'

'He looks to me as if nothing could awake him now.'

'Foster! You don't mean--that he is dead?'

Nothing could have pleased me less than such a consummation. If Mr.

Babbacombe had elected to die in such an extremely irregular fas.h.i.+on he certainly did not deserve the balance of that thousand pounds. I had stipulated that the end should take place in the presence of others; and, by inference, after they had been afforded an opportunity of satisfying themselves as to his being the actual Simon Pure.

Otherwise, in the future all sorts of questions might arise,--not to mention the fact that, after what Foster had apparently seen, I might find myself in a position of distinct discomfort. The lawyer voiced my thought, as if he had perceived it in my mind.

'It would be rather unfortunate for you if he should be dead.'

'Unfortunate for all of us.'

'Particularly for you. You were subjecting him to rather vigorous treatment. Better men have been killed by less.'

I turned and faced him, not feeling disposed to be brow-beaten by him.

'Foster, what do you mean?'

'Weren't you shaking him?'

'Shaking him! Foster! I was simply placing him in a more comfortable position.'

'Ah! And this is the position you have placed him in.'

'Your words and tone, Mr. Foster, require explanation.'

'Which they shall receive at the proper time and place. In the meantime, don't you think you'd better send for a doctor? Or shall I?'

Luckily Mr. Babbacombe proved himself to be possessed of more sense than I had begun to fear. He returned to life. Whether actuated or not by the newcomer's remarks and manner I cannot say; but he did. Just as we seemed to be on the verge of a really unseemly wrangle, without altering his position in the least, he opened his eyes, looked up at us, and spoke.

'Hollo, Foster? Is that you?'

It was excellently done; wonderfully clever. In the sudden rush of my relief I decided that his honorarium should be increased. It showed that he had kept his ears wide open, or he would hardly have known that his visitor's name was Foster. I only hoped that he had gained, from what had pa.s.sed, some idea of who he was, and what was the position he occupied, without its being necessary for me to drop too plain a hint. However, the agile Mr. Babbacombe proved himself equal to the occasion. The man-of-affairs stood looking down at him before he answered.

'I am glad, my Lord Marquis, that you know me.'

'Know you? Why shouldn't I know you? Hang you, Foster!'

Instinct had supplied Mr. Babbacombe with at least one of Twickenham's habits of speech, his trick of rounding off nearly every sentence he uttered with what one might call, by courtesy, an apostrophe.

'I am sorry, my lord, to see you looking so unwell.'

'I am going to die.'

'I trust, and believe, that it is not so bad with you as that. Where has your lords.h.i.+p been during all these years?'

'Playing with the fires.'

'Playing with the fires?' The lawyer repeated the words as if in doubt as to their meaning. But a glance at the speaker's face made it clear to him that the answer was perhaps not so far out as it might have been. 'Is your lords.h.i.+p married?'