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Dead Men Tell No Tales | E. W. Hornung | |
Chapter XIII The Longest Day of My Life |
Page 3 of 7 |
It must have been about mid-day when Rattray reappeared, ruddy, spurred, and splashed with mud; a comfort to sick eyes, I declare, in spite of all. He brought me two little vials, put one on the chimney-piece, poured the other into my tumbler, and added a little water. "There, old fellow," said he; "swallow that, and if you don't get some sleep the chemist who made it up is the greatest liar unhung." "What is it?' I asked, the glass in my hand, and my eyes on those of my companion. "I don't know," said he. "I just told them to make up the strongest sleeping-draught that was safe, and I mentioned something about your case. Toss it off, man; it's sure to be all right." Yes, I could trust him; he was not that sort of villain, for all that Eva Denison had said. I liked his face as well as ever. I liked his eye, and could have sworn to its honesty as I drained the glass. Even had it been otherwise, I must have taken my chance or shown him all; as it was, when he had pulled down my blind, and shaken my pillow, and he gave me his hand once more, I took it with involuntary cordiality. I only grieved that so fine a young fellow should have involved himself in so villainous a business; yet for Eva's sake I was glad that he had; for my mind failed (rather than refused) to believe him so black as she had painted him. |
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Dead Men Tell No Tales E. W. Hornung |
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