Miss Verinder went back to the sitting-room, and I went upstairs to Mr.
Blake.
To my surprise I found him alone; restlessly pacing his room, and a
little irritated at being left by himself.
"Where is Mr. Bruff?" I asked.
He pointed to the closed door of communication between the two rooms.
Mr. Bruff had looked in on him, for a moment; had attempted to renew his
protest against our proceedings; and had once more failed to produce the
smallest impression on Mr. Blake. Upon this, the lawyer had taken refuge
in a black leather bag, filled to bursting with professional papers.
"The serious business of life," he admitted, "was sadly out of place on
such an occasion as the present. But the serious business of life
must be carried on, for all that. Mr. Blake would perhaps kindly make
allowance for the old-fashioned habits of a practical man. Time was
money--and, as for Mr. Jennings, he might depend on it that Mr. Bruff
would be forthcoming when called upon." With that apology, the lawyer
had gone back to his own room, and had immersed himself obstinately in
his black bag.
I thought of Mrs. Merridew and her embroidery, and of Betteredge and
his conscience. There is a wonderful sameness in the solid side of the
English character--just as there is a wonderful sameness in the solid
expression of the English face.
"When are you going to give me the laudanum?" asked Mr. Blake
impatiently.
"You must wait a little longer," I said. "I will stay and keep you
company till the time comes."
It was then not ten o'clock. Inquiries which I had made, at various
times, of Betteredge and Mr. Blake, had led me to the conclusion that
the dose of laudanum given by Mr. Candy could not possibly have been
administered before eleven. I had accordingly determined not to try the
second dose until that time.
We talked a little; but both our minds were preoccupied by the coming
ordeal. The conversation soon flagged--then dropped altogether. Mr.
Blake idly turned over the books on his bedroom table. I had taken
the precaution of looking at them, when we first entered the room. THE
GUARDIAN; THE TATLER; Richardson's PAMELA; Mackenzie's MAN OF FEELING;
Roscoe's LORENZO DE MEDICI; and Robertson's CHARLES THE FIFTH--all
classical works; all (of course) immeasurably superior to anything
produced in later times; and all (from my present point of view)
possessing the one great merit of enchaining nobody's interest, and
exciting nobody's brain. I left Mr. Blake to the composing influence
of Standard Literature, and occupied myself in making this entry in my
journal.